


Work For It

by Gallavich_Kismet



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-12-09 09:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11666292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallavich_Kismet/pseuds/Gallavich_Kismet
Summary: The story continues after Season 7, Episode 11. Ian realizes his heart is forever Mickey's and he made a mistake leaving him at the border. When a second chance at love presents itself, Ian realizes he has his work cut out for him.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing ANYTHING ever. I, like all of you other Gallavich supporters, am just looking for that happy ending. We all know they are endgame. This is just one scenario of how it could happen. Just trying to get the anxiety out of my system. All comments and critiques are welcome! 
> 
> I would like to thank @ms.gallavich for being my second set of eyes and constant cheerleader during this first chapter. It wouldn't have happened without her. Go follow her on Instagram if you do not already- her originality knows no bounds!
> 
> Additional characters and tags will be added as this story unfolds.   
> Follow me on Instagram for updates @gallavich_kismet

1.

If anyone had asked Ian how he’d been since letting Mickey drive off alone across that border, he wouldn’t know what to say. Numb? Not numb like how a new cocktail of meds could leave him with a sense of non-feeling or emptiness, but numb as in stagnant and unyielding, everything being the same day in and day out. He was bored—moving along with the monotonous flow of his everyday life. Wake up. Take meds. Eat breakfast. Run. Shower. Work.  Rinse. Repeat. Throw in a random hookup here or there and call it a day.

It had been two years since walking away from that border check. Two years since Monica had died. It was rough at first. Spiraling down into a low depression, it had been months before Ian could manage to pull himself out of bed without difficulty. But eventually, he evened out and he went on with his life. He reconciled with Trevor, which took some time, but ultimately they decided that friendship was what worked best for them. Plus, Ian could really use a friend. With Lip in a repetitive spiral of being on and off the wagon,  still jumping from girl to girl while trying to get his own life together, and hearing no word from Mandy since her escort incident a few years prior, Trevor had been the only other person Ian had felt he could be himself with.  So,  they had gotten closer over the last few years and with time Ian had started to become more comfortable again in his own skin and with being social.  He was, however, done with dating. His track record, after breaking up with Mickey the first time, left much to be desired, consisting of Caleb, who made Ian question his previously unwavering sexuality just long enough to actually fuck a woman; and Trevor, a good person who Ian had cheated on, because his heart had never really been in it. Ian now realized that his heart would never fully be available again to anyone other than the original South Side piece of trash he fell for back when he was just a kid. No—no more of that. He decided things were way easier when kept casual. He also realized old habits die hard, because it was still very easy to catch the eye of older men. So that is what—or rather who—he did.

This particular Saturday night, Ian was definitely out on the prowl. He’d had an especially long week, answering several tough calls at work, and he was excited to finally be able to blow off some steam. A deejay Trevor knew pretty well had invited him and a few of Trevor’s friends  to an exclusive rooftop party in the city, and Ian was looking forward to finding someone to hook up with—closer  to his own age— to quench the brief dry spell he’d been having.

The party did not disappoint and the deejay was wild. Drinks were going down like water and Ian was losing himself in the crowd out on the dance floor. He hadn’t had this much fun in a really long time. Motioning to get Trevor’s attention, Ian yelled as best he could above the music, “You need a drink?” Trevor nodded with a thumbs up, and Ian made his way off the dance floor and over to the bar.

As he was waiting for the bartender to start making his drinks, Ian turned to take in the entire rooftop scene. The place was really unbelievable, expanding over the entirety of a high-rise building.  Stringed lights were draped all around the roof. On the far end, where people entered off the elevator, it was intimately set up with couches and tables, allowing people to escape the distraction of the deejay and dance floor at the other end. In between the sitting area and the dance floor was a swimming pool lit up with colorful spotlights and decorated with floating lanterns.  High top tables were scattered around the pool allowing a perfect view of the activity on the dance floor, which took up the remainder of the vast rooftop space.  It was pretty swanky for a kid born and raised in the South Side and it made Ian think, not for the first time, how glad he was that he and Trevor had remained friends.

Relishing in his surroundings and absentmindedly playing with the coasters on the bar top, he did not immediately notice the newcomer that had sidled up next to him. Standing there with a goofy half-smile on his face, already more than a little buzzed and lost in thought, he caught out of the corner of his eye a glimpse of tattooed knuckles knocking idly on the bar top. Bringing a twinge of nostalgia to Ian, he smiled a little bit more.  Studying the knuckles more closely, each one was tattooed with a different highly-decorated skull. “Hmmph, I like your knuckle tatts,” Ian mumbled as his eyes moved over to study the hands’ owner.

Ian’s heart skipped a beat. Standing next to him was a truly gorgeous specimen. He was dressed to kill, with a distressed light gray, fitted button-down shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to reveal nicely toned arms.  He was wearing a black skinny tie, black skinny jeans and boots, and had on a black cuff bracelet and some silver rings that partially obscured two of the skull tattoos Ian first noticed. As Ian’s eyes scanned quickly up the stranger’s body, he saw blond hair perfectly coifed, not a strand out of place.  After taking in all of these details, Ian’s green eyes were met with a familiar blue, instantly drowning in their depth.

All noise stopped. Everyone around him ceased to exist. Ian had truly died. 

“What’s up, Firecrotch?”

 

2.

“Mickey??”

There Mickey stood looking completely different, but at the same time….not. He was blond and had updated tattoos, but had also lost weight and looked more fit than ever. He obviously had been working out, wherever he had been the past few years, and it was noticeable – especially through the new fitted style he was now opting to wear. And although his stance still held plenty of that old thuggish South Side attitude, there was more of a confidence to it – not for intimidation purposes, but confidence of a different type. It screamed, “I am here and I am free, so fuck off or get in me,” and Ian hoped for his own sake that this last part was being screamed directly at him.

“What are you doing here??” Ian was pretty sure he was definitely dead.

“What…you aren’t happy to see me?” Mickey asked with a sly smirk, tonguing the corner of his mouth, in that flirty way he had done since they had first fucked all those years ago.

“No…no…I am! I just…how are you even here?? You look…different. Good! You look fucking good, Mick. Bu- but what are you doing here??” Ian was a babbling mess which only made Mickey’s cocky smile grow wider.

“I got in with a group down in Mexico,” he started. “Ran back into Damon, that Mexican hitman motherfucker. We hashed it out – he got over us leaving his ass. Hooked me up with some people he knew. Had to move some shit up here. Figured I was an alright dealer back in the day, why ruin a good thing, right?” Mickey paused, looking at Ian pointedly, his smirk wavering just a bit. “So met some people, got the hook up, been dealing since,” Mickey continued, thumbing his nose, and shifted on his feet.  “Wasn’t too happy about having to come here to sell, but it was easy to change the tatts. They were fucking stupid anyways – but these skulls…they’re tight. Dia de los Muertos shit. Figured these and changing my hair and clothes – you know, trying not to look like the South Side thug they’re looking for. As long as I don’t have a conversation with a Fed I think I can lay low. Not here for long anyways. Staying on the North Side for now, with…uh….a friend.”

Ian had been listening as if in a trance, but at these last words he quickly snapped back to reality “A friend huh?” He tried not to let that sharp twinge of jealousy he felt in the pit of his stomach seep into his voice, but failed.

At that moment, Trevor came up behind Ian and patted his shoulders playfully. “Hey man, what’s the holdup on the drinks?? Tony’s remixes are unbelievable – you gotta get back out there! Oh, hey…” He had just then noticed Mickey for the first time.

Looking back and forth between the two, Ian hesitantly began to make introductions. “Hey Trevor, this is…”

“Jake,” Mickey quickly interrupted him, eying Trevor up and down. “Old friend of Ian’s.”

Trevor reached out to shake Mickey’s hand replying with a smile, “Hey Jake—Trevor. New friend of Ian’s…well…couple years new anyway.”

Trevor, still holding out his hand, slowly pulled it back when he realized Mickey wasn’t going to be shaking it anytime soon. Sensing awkwardness, Trevor fixed Ian with a meaningful look. “Well then, I’ll let you guys catch up. See you out there in a bit man,” and with that he took his drink and made his way back out onto the dance floor.

Mickey watched him go, biting at the inside of his cheek the whole time. He turned back toward Ian with what seemed to be blue fire in his eyes.

“New friend?” Mickey looked at Ian, without blinking.

Ian took a long sip from his own drink and cleared his throat. “Just a friend, Mick.”

“Couple years, hmm? Interesting timing.”

Ian returned Mickey’s fierce gaze and without hesitation replied, “He was the guy I was seeing when you first broke out. When I got back from the border, I told him I was with you. We broke up but stayed friends. End of story.”

When Mickey didn’t immediately say anything Ian pressed on. “What about you though, huh? Staying with a friend?”

Mickey just nodded slightly, biting his lip. “You could say that.” Mickey’s gaze was smoldering, never breaking contact with Ian’s green eyes.

Ian tried to match his confidence. “Well how bout you tell your friend to fuck off and you come home with me?”

Mickey chuckled. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Why not Mick??”

Mickey’s sly smile returned. He slowly edged closer and closer to Ian, now eyeing only his lips. Mickey could see the breath hitched within Ian, as if he was afraid to breathe. Ian was doing everything in his power to not surge forward to kiss those perfect lips, to not grab the back of Mickey’s blond head and pull him in hungrily to taste him, to not bite that perfect, plump bottom lip that Mickey had been tonguing throughout the entire conversation—fuck. 

Moving even closer so that only the thinnest sliver of air was left separating them, Mickey slowly splayed his hand on the back of Ian’s neck, their skin making contact for the first time. Gently stroking the sensitive spot under Ian’s ear with his thumb, Mickey licked his bottom lip and looked up once again, blue eyes meeting green.

Ian continued to hold his breath. He was afraid to breathe. Afraid the slightest movement would make him lose the love of his life all over again. As he gazed into Mickey’s eyes he saw the softness from when they were together before, a softness that was reserved solely for him once upon a time. He saw the love and care that he took for granted since the day Mickey first let him into his heart. He saw a twinge of sadness, if only for a split second, and then in a flash it was all gone—hard replacing soft.  In a flash, that wall from when they were kids—that wall that Mickey had had up for so long in the beginning of their relationship—that wall was right back up in place, and Ian, like a crash test dummy, hit it head on.

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

And with a pat to Ian’s neck, Mickey turned and walked away.

 

3.

Ian stood there, watching Mickey’s retreating figure. His heart felt like it had dropped down to his toes. Mickey was right there, in the flesh, and Ian was letting him go again. At this point, Ian didn’t care about their checkered past or Mickey’s new “friend”. He just knew he wanted Mickey. But, he also knew what that “fuck you” meant. It was a reminder that Ian was the one who let him go— that Ian had been the one to walk away that last time. Ian made Mickey think he was his ‘ride or die,’ leading him to believe he was in it for the long haul, making him believe he could have it all—all of Ian. 

Instead, Ian chose to back out right at the finish line—letting Mickey go into a world unknown and alone.  He just let him go after everything Mickey had done for him—coming out to a psychotic and homophobic prick of a father; taking care of him during his initial episodes and bipolar diagnosis; standing by him as his partner, lover, family when Ian took Yevgeny and went rogue; staying with Ian even when he cheated on him or did that porno bareback for some extra cash. Through all of this, Mickey continued to be there for him. Even with growing up in a love-lacking household, Mickey delivered his love for Ian in spades, showing it through unwavering loyalty and care. Time and time again, Mickey loved him and just wanted Ian to love him back, but for some reason it was never enough for Ian. He was always pushing, always wanting more, even when Mickey had already given him everything. 

Ian understood all of this now, and had long ago come to the realization that on the day he watched Mickey cross that border, a part of him had died. When Ian arrived back home after letting Mickey go, he struggled through his depression, battling with the heavy realization that Mickey was everything to him and now he was gone. Given the chance to make it right, Ian promised himself he would do everything in his power to get Mickey back. He wanted to give Mickey all the love he could possibly give and then some. He never wanted to let him go ever again. And here, on this rooftop, was his chance to make things right. His chance was here to fix all that was broken; but, his chance was walking away.  Looking REALLY good—but walking away just the same.

“Mickey! Wait!” Ian ran after him, grabbing his arm to pull him to a stop.

“Christ, Gallagher! Keep it down! I’m still a wanted man.”

Ian couldn’t stop himself from smirking – _yeah, by me._

Mickey caught the smirk and immediately knew what he was thinking. He raised his eyebrow and shook his head. “Fuck…I’m not doing this again.” Mick pulled his arm away from Ian. “I fucking need to get back to work. Have a nice night, Firecrotch.” And with his signature fuck you swagger that oozed confidence and screamed Mickey Milkovich, he turned and walked away.

Ian was hit with a wave of panic. He couldn’t let this happen again.  He wasn’t ready to give up so easily. He hoped he still knew Mickey well enough to be able to divert his attention and get him to stay and talk. It wasn’t the most ideal plan, but Ian knew Mickey had a jealous streak a mile wide. He would just need to work with that to get Mickey to talk to him. Ian turned and started to make his way over to Trevor on the dance floor. This should be easy enough.

Trevor saw Ian approaching and immediately recognized the look in his eye. He had been out with Ian enough to know when Ian was on a mission. This must have something to do with Jake. When he interrupted the two men earlier, the sexual tension was palpable—almost electric.

“Hey man. You look like you’re ready to pounce. You trying to work over that Jake guy? My friend Paul over there has been asking for you the whole time you’ve been gone if you need a pawn for your little game.” Trevor chuckled, shaking his head.

Ian looked around until he picked out the friend Trevor was referring to. There he was, a slender but chiseled and tattooed brunette with an icy blue stare who was already eye-fucking the hell out of him. He would definitely do.

Ian danced over to Paul, not breaking his intense eye contact. He moved his way behind him, grinding up against him, busting out all of his old Fairy Tail moves. For a second he got lost in his gyrations, remembering what it was like to move so freely, and sexy, with the feeling that all eyes were on him, but he quickly gained a little more composure to focus on the task at hand.

Continuing his rhythmic grinding into the brunette’s ass, Paul took it as a cue to start reaching up and back, running fingers through Ian’s red hair and giving Ian an open invitation to suck his neck if he so pleased. Ian needed to make sure Mickey was watching the show, before he could oblige. Ian peered over Paul’s shoulder, searching for Mickey among the partygoers until he honed in on his new, brilliant blond hair.

Mickey was standing with his back against a high top table, thumbs hooked in his pockets, looking over across the pool towards the dance floor—eyes directly on Ian. But he was not alone. There was another man pressed up close beside him—a GQ Christian Grey motherfucker, who was fingering Mickey’s collar, whispering in his ear and nuzzling into his neck.  Mickey knew exactly what Ian was doing and figured two could play at that game. And Mickey was already two steps ahead.

Ian watched as Mickey turned his gaze away from him and towards GQ. He watched with blood pounding in his ears as Mickey reached up his hand to the back of GQ’s neck, mimicking the touch he had used on Ian not long before. He watched as Mickey leaned in and whispered something into GQ’s ear with his fucking sexy, playful smile. He watched as GQ returned the smile, nodding, and he watched with baited breath as Mickey turned and walked off towards the men’s room, leaving GQ alone at the table, but obviously not for long. As GQ started to quickly down his cocktail, Ian snapped out of his trance. He was not having any of this shit.

Ian pushed Paul aside with a mumbled apology and quickly moved off the dance floor, following Mickey to the restroom before GQ could make his way there himself. Ian got to the deserted restroom and barged right in, locking the door behind him and spinning around to see Mickey standing there, waiting with his smug smile. Yep, that fucker knew exactly what he was doing.

Ian lunged forward, shoving Mickey in the chest. “What the fuck Mickey!?” He shoved him again, grasping onto Mickey’s shirt this time, holding him and pushing him against the wall. “What’s with the fucking games?!” Ian was right in his face, yelling.

Mickey grimaced, broke free from Ian’s grasp and shoved him back. “My fucking games?? What about you??” Fuck you, bitch!” Mickey shoved him again, balling the front of Ian’s shirt in his fist. He pushed him until Ian’s back hit the door, then pulled him forward to shove him again.

“Fuck you.” Mickey said it quieter this time, the fist gripping Ian’s shirt loosening little by little until his hand was pressed flat against Ian’s chest.

Holding their positions, everything seemed to slow down almost to a stop. The music from the party faded to nothing. The air around them grew heavy and rippled with tension. Ian stood with his chest heaving and watched spellbound as Mickey slowly licked his lips, his eyes falling to rest on Ian’s own. An internal battle of wills was clearly being fought behind Mickey’s searching eyes.

“Fuck it.”

Mickey smashed his lips against Ian’s. Hungrily they kissed, as if they had been starving for this every day since their last one. Always starving for this. Their tongues fought while their hands greedily grasped at each other’s hair. Ian swung Mickey around and pushed him up against the door. His hand moved down from Mickey’s neck, down his chest and down lower still to grab the growing bulge in Mickey’s jeans. Letting go of Mickey’s hair, Ian moved his other hand around to Mickey’s ass and moved in closer, replacing the hand on his crotch with his thigh, pressing in repeatedly to apply the perfect amount of friction and pressure. Mickey moaned out a soft, drawn out “ _fuuuck_ ,” and leaned his head to the side, inviting Ian to taste. Ian responded by licking a fat line up Mickey’s neck to behind his ear and nipped him playfully, then soothed the mark he’d left with light, feathery kisses.  Ian moved his free hand to join the other around Mickey’s backside to squeeze his perfect ass cheek. _God, he’d missed those cheeks. So round, a perfect squeeze..._

With Ian’s warm body pressed up against his, after all this time, Mickey was barely holding it together. His heart was racing, his breathing already labored. He squeezed his eyes shut to try to rein himself in, and as soon as he did, everything started to come back to him. Every goddamn detail.

Mickey pushed Ian off of him. “Fuck!”

His eyes still clouded with desire, Ian immediately tried to move back in, but Mickey shoved him again. “Fuckin’ prick.”

Ian blinked, taken aback. “Mick…”

“No! We aren’t fucking doing this anymore!” Mick was pacing around the small restroom like a caged animal. Ian watched him, his heart pounding, his cock throbbing, his mind racing, his breath hitched. “What do I need to do Mick? I’m fucking sorry!”

Mickey stopped pacing and leaned up against the door, looking at him with his arms crossed. _Fuck Gallagher for always looking so good._ It was obvious he had been working out over the past two years, but his skin was just as smooth and pale as he remembered. Contrasting against his fire red hair, it looked like he was cut from fucking marble. As Mickey continued to admire Ian’s body a smug smile started to form on his face once again.

“Suck my dick…whenever I want.” He raised his eyebrow, looking at Ian expectantly.

Ian didn’t hesitate. Without breaking eye contact he flew across the small space separating them and dropped to his knees, wrestling with Mickey’s zipper and pulling out his already hard and dripping cock. Mickey smiled and bit his lip, closing his eyes, he nodded and leaned his head back.

_Yeah, fuck you, Gallagher._

4.

Ian stood up after swallowing Mickey’s load, looking completely disheveled but with a reignited fire in his eyes. With his finger and thumb he slowly wiped the corners of his mouth and eyed Mickey with intent, stepping closer. “So, what now? My place or yours?”

Zipping up his pants Mickey stepped back and scoffed. “I don’t know what you think is going on but this was nothing. You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me.” Mickey’s eyes were blazing with malice, staring right through Ian’s.

Ian stepped back further throwing up his hands,” Oh come the fuck on Mickey! You can’t fake this. Not this time.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey spit back. “There is no this,” he continued, waving his hand animatedly between himself and Ian. “YOU made sure of that.”

Ian’s gut wrenched. It was obviously going to take a lot more work than a blow job and a simple sorry to get back into the good graces of his South Side thug. He should have known that. But Ian was certain that he was willing to give it his all. He had never been more certain about anything in his life than he was right now about Mickey Milkovich.

“Mick. Seriously. Let’s just go talk. Please. I love—“

“No—fuck no! I am not fucking around here. This is it. I’m fucking done. DONE.” Mickey thumbed his lip as he started to pace restlessly once again. “I don’t know what you expected. Like you haven’t fucked me over enough already? I’m just here for a few weeks to do a job and that’s it. And so I got my dick sucked by a fucking twink in the process – I guess that’s a win for me.”

He stopped his pacing long enough to shoot one last scathing look in Ian’s direction. “I need a fucking cigarette and I need to get the fuck out of here,” he said, as he turned around to unlock the door.

He stormed out without looking back. “Have a nice life, bitch.”

Ian just stood there staring at the door as it swung shut. His eyes blurred. He knew he deserved every bit of Mickey’s anger. And having seen the pure disdain in Mickey’s eyes he couldn’t help but think that it was really over. He just watched the absolute love of his life—his soulmate—walk out that door and he had finally run out of second chances. He couldn’t help but think this was how Mickey must have felt as he drove across the Mexican border. Did Mickey look up in his rearview mirror and watch Ian get further and further away? Did he feel like he had a hole in his heart as he watched his soulmate fade away with distance?

Ian stood there willing the tears not to fall until his thoughts were interrupted by someone opening the door, looking to use the restroom. Ian dragged himself back out into the noise and the crowd, feeling the same emptiness that had enveloped him whole when he first returned from the border that horrible day two years ago.

He made his way toward the exit without saying goodbye to Trevor, his eyes vacant, his chest constricting. He took the elevator down to the lobby, walked out the revolving doors, and absentmindedly let his feet start leading him towards the L. He couldn’t hold the tears in anymore.

_What the fuck have I done?_

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's POV with his arrival to Chicago and the aftermath of his first encounter with Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized quotations in section 2 is Mandy's portion of a phone conversation with Mickey.
> 
> Shout out and big thank you to my second set of eyes @ms.gallavich (IG). Without her, this would never have continued on. Give her a follow. Also, come find me on Instagram @gallavich_kismet where I try to spam the fandom with positivity because #mickeywillbeback.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading. I apologize for the lull in between chapters, but as you know, #reallife and also it takes some time to get it just right. My hopes is to be quicker with the remaining chapters. Questions, comments and critiques are always welcome. Enjoy!

1.

From across the roof, Mickey watched over the top of his drink as Ian, eyes vacant and unseeing, exited the restroom and walked listlessly towards the elevators. _Fuck, Ian._  Mickey was floored over everything that had just gone down in the span of less than an hour.  He had known there was a possibility of running into Gallagher at some point during this little excursion to Chicago, but he didn’t think there was any chance in hell he would run into him his first night back. And at this swanky, fucking roof top party, no less.  _Christ, what the fuck just happened?_

2.

**_[Earlier that day]_ **

Mickey was on edge about being back in the states and his anxiety momentarily spiked as he drove the used black Ford Explorer over the state line into Illinois. He was thankful Mandy couldn’t see him as he reflexively checked the rearview mirror for what must have been the hundredth time that morning, and could only hope she didn’t hear any change in his voice over the phone.

 “So does he know I’m showing up today?” Mickey asked, as he checked behind him one more time before pulling into a rest area off the highway so he could stop to take a leak.

_“Yeah—I talked to him last night, he’s ready for you.  But Mick, I gotta be honest…I don’t think you’re ready for him…”_ The way she trailed off and the knowing tone of her voice irritated Mickey to no end.

“The fuck does that even mean?  Ready? I can handle my shit—“

_“No, Mick. I’m serious. I don’t know what you’ve been up to since Ian left—“_

 “Fuck off! I’m not talking about this with you—“

_“Calm the fuck down shithead—I’m not talking about THAT. I just meant you being with anyone else, getting back in the saddle, you know—ride ‘em cowboy—“_

“Jesus fuck, Mandy!” Thankfully, Mickey had already stopped and was parked in the lot of the small rest area. Fucking chick talk with his sister was the last thing he wanted to be doing right then – or ever. Agitated, he rubbed a hand down his face and consciously looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Fuck if he wasn’t surprised every time he saw his blond image staring back at him. He had made the change about a week earlier in preparation for this trip and still hadn’t gotten used to it. But damn if he didn’t look good. He knew he did. And not that he was lacking any confidence at this point, but being comfortably out of the closet and not living in constant fear of his father made life a hell of a lot easier, and had definitely been a boost to his sex life over the past two years. 

After he had safely crossed into Mexico it took a little while to get over the fact that Ian had let him go. Again.  At first all he could feel was hurt, but that hurt soon turned into disbelief, and the disbelief into anger. He had done everything for that stupid fuck and was only in the mess he was in because of him. Everything that had led to his being a wanted fugitive was in some way connected to Ian fucking Gallagher, and fuck if he was going to let that continue on. He was done this time and ready to focus on himself and his own life for once—and that included getting ass if and when he wanted. But as much as he got laid, he wasn’t about to wear his heart on his sleeve again anytime soon, so he had been keeping it casual. But like hell he was going to have this type of conversation with his little sister.

_“—Mick I’m serious. Trey is in a different league. He is a fucking predator when it comes to his game. And I know his type and you fit right in that category. You know you look hot—and you know there is no way in hell I would ever say that to you if I didn’t fucking mean it.  Trey is a fucking man-eater and he is going to take one look at you and he’s either going to pounce or pursue until you fucking give it up. So I guess I’m just trying to give you fair warning.  Be a good little boy scout and always be prepared—”_ At this point Mandy was noticeably trying to hold back her laughter and failing miserably.

“Alright, alright. Jesus. Are you done? I think I can handle him Mands. I’m here to fucking do a job and that’s it. Nothing else.”

_“Yeah, yeah asswipe. Whatever you say.  I gotta go.”_ Mandy was still laughing, but trying to reign it in. _“Give me a call once you’re settled.”_

“Yeah, okay—”

The conversation was over. He knew he should just say goodbye. Hang up the phone. Do anything besides what he was about to do next. His anxiety spiked again.

“Hey, Mandy?” He tried to sound casual but he was in danger of choking on his own tongue. “You ah— you hear from fucking Gallagher lately?” The words were tumbling out before he had any chance of stopping them.

Mandy was only silent for a second, but in her pause Mickey felt all the pain, all the uncertainty, all the hope he had once clung to wash over him completely until he was struggling to breathe.

_“I thought you were only going back to do a job. Nothing else.”_

It was all he needed. Mickey let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and just like that, whatever had momentarily struck him was gone.

“I am. Whatever. I’ll talk to you later douchebag.” Mickey meant that with love. And he knew Mandy would know it too.

_“Later Mick.”_ Mandy ended the call, thankful her big brother couldn’t see the sad smile playing across her lips as she did.

Once Mickey had gotten settled in Mexico, he had made it a point to get in touch with her. Even though she hadn’t been back to Chicago since shortly after Mick had gotten locked up, she was easy enough to track down. During her time escorting, she ended up hooking up with a bigwig photographer in New York who got her into editorial modeling and she had been doing pretty well for herself since. That was how she had met Trey. Trey was an athletic model who she had worked with once during a shoot in New York City. They had bonded then over cheap whiskey, cheap men, and the fact that they were both from Chicago where he happened to still live. When she had learned that Mickey was planning on risking a return trip home to move some of his inventory, she figured her connection to Trey was far enough removed that no Feds would think to connect him with Mickey.  His expensive condo on the North Side would be the last place anyone would ever expect to find her brother, and it seemed a safe enough place for Mick to crash for a few days. 

Although her acquaintance with Trey hadn’t extended much beyond the time they’d spent together while working in New York, his reputation was well known among those in her circle and she had seen his game firsthand the few times they’d gone out drinking together. He liked the hunt and was quick to fool around, and she didn’t doubt that Mickey would become a conquest for Trey the second he laid eyes on him.  But none of this bothered her.  If she knew her brother, Trey was right up his alley—being hot, confident and looking to have fun –  and damn it if she didn’t believe Mickey deserved a little fun after everything he had been through. She knew Mickey asking if she heard from Gallagher was the closest he would ever come to admitting the dread he felt about going back home and the possibility of seeing Ian again after all this time. So if she could lighten the load for Mickey and throw him a bone, why not? What were sisters for? She loved the dumb prick and she just wanted him to be happy.

 

3.

Mickey double-checked the North Side address he had jotted down on a scrap of paper as he rolled up in front of the high-rise building where Trey owned a condo. _Jesus, this is really it?_  He pulled in off the street and parked his car under a carriage porch where a young man in an ill-fitting valet jacket was standing at the ready. _Jesus_.

Mickey turned off the ignition and reminded himself one last time: as far as Trey knew, his name was Jake, he was an old friend of Mandy’s, and he was in need of a place to crash for the next few weeks while in town for business. And he didn’t know what kind of bullshit Mandy had been spinning earlier that morning, but he was not some fucking inexperienced virgin about to walk unknowingly into a lion’s den. He had done his own research on the guy and after what he had seen he was hardly surprised to learn of the reputation he had. _A fucking model? Jesus, Mandy._ But whatever – if something happened, then something happened. It wouldn’t be any skin off his back.

As he stepped out of the car, he was hit with a familiar blast of sticky summer heat and he found himself thinking again the same thing he had been telling himself over and over for the past week – he wasn’t coming home, he was just back in Chicago for a few weeks to offload some stock and then he would be back down south before anyone knew any different. Should be easy enough – in and out.

Mickey tossed his keys to the overeager valet, grabbed his bag and valet ticket, and headed through the revolving door into the cool, air-conditioned lobby of Trey’s building. _Shit, this place was impressive._ Even though Mickey had been dealing with higher end clientele for the past six months or so, he was still warming up to this side of life, and often couldn’t help but compare his old life to his new.

When he had first got in with Damon’s crew, the big boss Martinez had immediately dubbed him the new ‘pretty boy.’ Being the South Side thug that he was, Mickey didn’t take to this lightly, but for better or worse the name stuck as he got more comfortable in his role. He was selling to yuppies, preps, bored trophy wives, and jet setting entrepreneurs and he quickly realized he could capitalize off qualities aside from aggression and coercion.  Cleaning up a little and honing in on his confidence, he soon realized he could pretty much sell a dildo to a fucking nun. And,  if in the mix of it all he enjoyed some casual encounters to help pass the time then so be it. Having the confidence to go for what he wanted was a hell of a lot better than succumbing to the shit spiral he had found himself in when he first crossed that border without Ian. So he used his new-found confidence to his advantage and moved forward, not really giving a shit anymore. He did his thing and he did it well. If anyone had a problem with that they could fuck right off.

After leaving his fake name with the very bored looking redhead sitting behind the reception desk, Mickey walked through the lavishly decorated lobby, got into the waiting elevator, and hit the button for the 34th floor. As the elevator began its ascent towards the top, he couldn’t help but imagine what the view of Chicago was going to be like from that high up, and again his mind unwittingly began to make comparisons between his old life and his new. Now he schmoozed rich businessmen over expensive drinks instead of dealing to sketchy tweakers in some dark alley. Nights were more often than not spent in penthouse suites rather than in an old rundown house filled with too many horrible memories to count. Private yachts and town cars had replaced Terry’s beat-up old shit box and the piss-stained seats of the overcrowded L. He enjoyed crab-stuffed lobster tails in five star restaurants instead of stale Pop-Tarts or pizza rolls shared on a lumpy old couch... Mickey squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck his old life—every aspect of it. He was done with it all.

When the elevator stopped he opened his eyes and strolled leisurely down the hall until he found Trey’s door and knocked briskly.  From somewhere inside the condo came a shuffle and a grunted “Just a sec!” A few seconds later a perfectly tanned, brunette man in his early twenties answered the door just as he was at the tail end of zipping up his dark jeans and smoothing down his black tank top. He had a clear case of bedhead, hair being slightly mussed, and he had that just fucked look to him – flushed cheeks, swollen lips, the pupils of his intense hazel eyes still slightly blown.

“Hey man– I’m Jake, friend of Mandy’s.” Mickey stood at the threshold somewhat awkwardly waiting for an invite in but none was immediately forthcoming. Trey simply shifted his weight to lean against the doorframe, arms folded across his muscular chest and a practiced smirk on his face; he was already eye fucking the shit out of Mickey. The guy’s stare was unyielding and Mickey could actually feel his eyes boring into him, grazing all over. If ever there was a time when Mickey felt like a surveyed piece of meat, this was it. Mickey’s eyebrows began creeping slowly up his forehead in disbelief as Trey continued his blatant assessment. He finally cleared his throat to snap Trey out of his daze.

“Yeah – come in, come in,” Trey said eagerly, moving just enough so that Mickey still had to brush past him on his way through the door. “How was the ride?”

Mickey stepped further into the condo, taking in the rich hardwood floors, the smooth marble countertops in the kitchen to his left, and the sunken living room straight ahead where floor to ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the downtown cityscape. He dropped his bag on a plush white rug in front of a pristine, matching leather couch and had just started to answer when he was interrupted by the appearance of another man from behind a closed door to his left. He was about Trey’s height, blond, and just as disheveled looking. He was attempting to finish buttoning up his blue dress shirt with one hand while holding onto his belt in the other. His pale eyes briefly flickered over Mickey’s surprised face but he kept walking towards the front door where Trey was still standing.

“Hey, I need to get going, but I had a really great time.” The stranger sidled up to Trey, placing his hand behind his neck and moving in to kiss him. Seemingly unconcerned that Mickey was only a few steps away, Trey unabashedly wrapped one hand around the stranger’s waist while his other hand cut a trail down the man’s chest until he was palming his crotch, all the while kissing him deeply. Just as Mickey felt he might need to clear his throat for a second time, Trey pulled back a little and smiled. He led him out the door by pushing him gently, still massaging his cock through his unbelted pants; the stranger allowing himself to be guided out backwards, eyes partially closed but still fixed on Trey’s smiling face. Giving the stranger’s now noticeable hard-on one last squeeze, Trey finally released him when he crossed the threshold into the hallway, replying, “Me too – we should really do this again. I got your number. I’ll call you Mark.” 

“It’s Mike,” the stranger replied with obvious disappointment. Trey scoffed. “That’s what I said—“and with that he unceremoniously swung the door shut in Mike’s crestfallen face.

Trey spun around on his heels and addressed Mickey again. “Where were we?”

_Jesus, this guy was ruthless._ But hell if Mickey wasn’t a little turned on by it. ~~~~

“Ride was alright. Thanks for doing Mandy the favor – for letting me crash or whatever.”

“Hey it’s no big deal.  Mandy’s alright. Plus, she really talked you up…said I wouldn’t be disappointed.” Trey shifted on his feet, crossing his arms again. The cockiness of this guy, completely filling the place. Eyes still fucking the shit out of Mickey.

Mickey returned the gaze with an icy stare.  Thumbing his nose, he laughed. “Oh yeah? And?”

“And I like what I see so far– highly doubt I’d be disappointed.” Trey dropped his arms and stepped forward.

“Easy slugger– how ‘bout you just show me where I can put my shit.”

Trey smirked and started to lead the way through his place. It was a three bedroom condo with one of the bedrooms converted into a home gym. Off the living room to the left where Trey’s last conquest had originally appeared, Mickey just caught sight of an unmade king sized bed covered in black silk sheets – _fucking of course_ – and another floor to ceiling window through the open door of what was obviously the master bedroom before being ushered down a hallway where the remaining rooms and bathroom were. Entering the spare bedroom, Mickey threw his bag onto the bed and began rifling through it, all the while feeling Trey’s eyes still boring into him as he lingered at the door.

“You obviously work out, so feel free to use the gym whenever.  I’ll be in and out but I’ve got a couple of big shoots going on right now and am in the middle of expanding my portfolio, so I won’t be around much during the day. Here’s an extra set of keys so you can come and go as you please.” He paused briefly. “Though I’d rather see you come…”

Mickey whipped his head around to face Trey who looked like a sex devil incarnate. In his outstretched hand he offered Mickey a set of keys, but coupled with Trey’s suggestive grin it might as well have been a condom and bottle of lube. _Jesus_.

Mickey raised an eyebrow and shook his head, “You serious with that shit? You just full of these little lines and you think they’re just gonna work?”

“Pretty much.” Trey’s lips twitched until they finally widened into a full, dazzling smile.

_Jesus, what a smug little motherfucker._ Still, Mickey allowed himself half a second to really take in the whole sight. _A really hot, tight, cut, sexy ass motherfucker._ He had to get the hell out of there. And anyway, he reminded himself, he had some prior obligations to attend to before meeting up with some potential buyers later that night. Mickey shook his head again, roughly grabbed the keys from Trey’s hand, and walked out of the room, brushing past him purposefully.

“As much as I want to stay and hear what else you have in your pickup line arsenal, I have some things I gotta go do for work.”

“Aw, Jake…I’m disappointed. But that’s ok – we have a couple weeks, right? I have no doubt there’ll be plenty of time to show you what I’m packing in my arsenal.”

Mickey looked back and the motherfucker actually winked at him. And if winking wasn’t one of the dumbest moves people do, the stupid motherfucker actually looked good doing it. He made WINKING look good.  Mickey definitely needed to get the fuck out of there.

Trey turned to follow Mickey back through the living room and past the kitchen, towards the front door.

“So, what do you do for work anyways? Mandy never said.”

“I’m a consultant. Pitch business ideas and shit,” Mickey answered distractedly, as he made a last second effort to check his pockets for his wallet and valet ticket before leaving.

Seizing the opportunity, Trey cut ahead of him to open the door and once again took up his relaxed position against the doorframe. Mickey was again forced to press his body uncomfortably close to Trey’s in order to get out into the relatively safety of the hallway. As he stepped past him he felt the heat coming off the other man’s skin and then the brush of Trey’s finger run lazily along the side of his exposed neck.

“Maybe you can pitch some ideas to me later,” Trey suggested with a silky laugh.

_So fucking cocky._ Mickey’s only response was to scoff, but he returned Trey’s intense stare for a few seconds before finally starting down the hallway. Mickey was definitely in for it these next couple of weeks. He walked quickly toward the elevator, trying to discreetly flatten the sudden tightness he felt in the front of his pants since he knew Trey would still be watching. _Mandy wasn’t fucking around about this guy._

4.

About an hour after Mickey watched a dejected Ian get on the elevator and leave the party, Mickey was more than a little buzzed, if not pretty fucking inebriated. He was sitting back at the bar with his whiskey and beer chaser, not really paying attention to anything going on around him. He should be working over the crowd to get some new contacts, but fuck it. It was only his first day back. _How the hell did any of this happen on the first day?_ He picked angrily at the label on his half empty beer bottle. _What the fuck was Gallagher even doing here?_

“Jake, you’re still here…Jake?”

In his drunken stupor, Mickey was a little slow on the uptake and had forgotten that he was supposed to be Jake. He turned slowly and saw Trevor leaning against the bar flagging down the bartender for another drink. Mickey eyed him through heavy lids.

“Still here.” Mickey turned back and ripped back another shot, slamming the empty glass down on the bar top.

 “So I couldn’t help but notice the tension between you and Ian.” Clearly Trevor wasn’t catching the “fuck off” vibe emanating from Mickey. When he made no response except to pick up his beer, Trevor plowed on. “And considering he left in a huge rush, I take it things didn’t go too well… Do you want to talk about it?”

_This kid was too nice for his own good._

“Nope.” Mickey said, popping the “p” with finality. “Thanks anyways Dear Abby.” He took a swig from the bottle and put it back down.

Trevor’s face scrunched up. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Mickey didn’t know what this guy’s problem was. He started waving down the bartender for another shot while he mumbled a reply, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch princess. I’m just not into having a girly fucking gab session right now—“

Trevor shoved Mickey roughly from his stool. “Hey fuck you, man! You don’t have to be a fucking dick about me being trans—“

Finally he had Mickey’s full attention. Pulling his shoulder away from Trevor’s recent touch Mickey tried to get his booze-soaked mind to play catch up.  “What the fuck?  I don’t… I wasn’t… wait…you have a fucking pussy?” Mickey was all over the place, his eyes continually dropping to stare at Trevor’s crotch as Trevor stood there, arms crossed, looking like he was about to deck Mickey in the face. “And you…and Gallagher? Jesus—”

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing.

“You know what…I am way too drunk to have this conversation. I don’t care what the fuck you have going on down there—” Mickey was waving his hand animatedly towards the front of Trevor’s pants.  “But I don’t really wanna talk about THAT or about any of the other shit either. Not with you. Not in general. Gallagher is… All that shit with Gallagher is in the past.” He paused and Trevor watched as Mickey seemed to visibly deflate right in front of him. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and stared down at his feet. “But you— you seem to have stuck around when it mattered. I just want to know if he’s doing ok.” He raised his head enough to be able to watch Trevor through his lashes. ~~~~

Trevor’s face softened. He was South Side. Trevor had learnt that ignorance knew no bounds there, and he realized he was just dealing with another born and bred South Sider who didn’t know shit about anything. But he had caught the immediate change in Jake’s demeanor when talking about Ian and he recognized the worry all over his face now. Real worry. But there was something else too… Something that had been prickling the back of Trevor’s mind ever since they had first met earlier that night. He searched the other man’s anxiously waiting face. Those blue eyes. _Holy shit._

 “Mickey?” Trevor asked quietly.

He watched the liquor haze disappear from those piercingly blue eyes as they grew wide. “Shit…SHIT.”

Mickey chugged the rest of his beer and started to turn to walk away. Trevor quickly reached out a hand to grab Mickey’s arm which Mickey shook off violently, but he remained in place, staring at Trevor.

“He’s ok,” Trevor said earnestly. “Ian…he’s ok. For the most part.” Trevor put his hand in his pockets, looking at the ground.

Mickey’s heart was racing. “What the fuck does that mean? He’s either ok or he isn’t.” He was digging for any bit of information. Anything to help ease his mind. As long as he knew Ian was ok, or was going to be ok, then he could forget what happened earlier tonight and just do what he had to do and be on his way.

“I don’t know, man… He told me...” Trevor dug a hand out of his pocket to run through his hair before turning to look Mickey squarely in the eye. “He told me he was with you. That time a couple years ago. When he got back, he had a really tough time. Wouldn’t talk to anyone. Wouldn’t get out of bed. His mom died. Did you know that? She died when he was on his way home from wherever you two were together. He was a fucking mess—”

_Shit_. Mickey had had no idea. How could he? He’d ditched his burner phone almost as soon as he had crossed over into Mexico, and the only real link he’d had to his old life these past two years was Mandy – and even she hadn’t talked to Ian in who knows how long…

“—it took a while for him to bounce back. Get his meds sorted out and stuff. I stuck around because shit, he doesn’t really have many people except his family and we all know what kind of shit show that is. And I guess I’ve always had a habit of wanting to try and fix the ones who are broken—”

Mickey’s face immediately contorted in rage. “Fuck you! He’s not fucking broken. He’s not—” Mickey trailed off. It felt like he had been punched in the gut.

Trevor raised his hands defensively. “Jesus, I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted to be there for him, you know? So I was. And he eventually got back on track. Actually started going out again. Clubbing, partying. Being a normal twenty-something year old.” Mickey seemed to deflate again, but was nodding along. “Well, maybe except for the old guy fetish he seems—“

“What the fuuuck – again? Seriously?”

Trevor laughed at that. “Yeah man. I don’t know why he does it. He can do so much better. Not that he’s really trying. He fucks around and its one time deals. Don’t see that changing anytime soon. He’s just—different…compared to how he used to be.”

Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. His emotions were all over the place and the whiskey and beer churning together in his stomach was not helping. He just stood there looking at Trevor and realized again that Trevor knew who he was. He knew, and was telling him all this shit about Ian. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Trevor looked at Mickey confused. “Because it seemed like you cared.”

Mickey scoffed. “Well I fucking don’t.”

“Really? Cause you could have fooled me,” Trevor shot back.

The two men locked eyes until suddenly there was nothing Mickey wanted more than to get as far away from this self-righteous prick as possible. He closed the small gap between them until their noses were only an inch apart and then let the South Side in him take over.

“You don’t know fuck all about me. And you sure as hell didn’t fucking see me here tonight, right Curly Sue?” Trevor stood his ground but knew enough to keep his mouth shut until Mickey backed off. “And you can tell Gallagher to go fuck himself for me. No better yet, tell him to enjoy his geriatric viagroids. Fucking dick.” And with that Mickey turned and stormed off.

He needed to suck back at least three or four more drinks and then to pass the fuck out. Fuck this whole entire day, and fuck what he tried to convince himself of before. There was going to be nothing easy about being back in Chicago. The next couple weeks were going to be a complete shit show.

 

5.

It was still relatively early when Mickey got back to Trey’s condo and he could see that a light was still on inside from the crack beneath the door. Logic and good sense, however, had beat a quick retreat shortly after Mickey’s third or fourth consecutive shot of Jack, so rather than just knock he struggled to free the keys Trey had given from his pocket and fumbled with them in the lock for a good minute. Finally he managed to shoulder open the door and stumbled in over the threshold. He definitely may have drank one too many, but like hell if that was going to stop him from having a few more. Seeing Ian tonight had done a number on him, in more ways than one, and fuck it if Mickey was going to fall into the vicious cycle of feelings Gallagher tended to evoke in him. 

Mickey heard the sound of running water and turned to see Trey standing at the kitchen sink with his back towards him washing some dishes. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a loose fitting pair of grey sweatpants which hung dangerously low off his hips. Mickey took this opportunity while still unnoticed to run his eyes over Trey’s figure.

His back was muscular and cut, and a circular tribal tattoo of a wolf’s head adorned his right shoulder.  Mickey’s eyes were momentarily transfixed by the wolf as it was brought to life by every contraction of Trey’s muscles as he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn pan. Mickey’s eyes then trailed down to the cleft and dimples that dipped into his lower back and led down to what Mickey could only imagine would be a smooth, yet firm ass— the sweatpants certainly left nothing to the imagination in terms of what shape it was in.   At that moment, Trey turned slightly to place the now clean pan in the drying rack and the movement afforded Mickey a quick flash of his V-line, a deep cut leading south into Trey’s low hanging sweats.

Fuck, if Mickey wasn’t feeling something happening in his own pants just then. It wasn’t like he had been turned off by Trey’s advances earlier in the day, and his brazen self-confidence was something that Mickey could definitely be down with. It was decided then as he began trying to imagine what Trey might be packing in the front of those grey sweats; he could use a quick, hard fuck. Get Gallagher off his dick and out of his head. _Why the fuck not?_ Trey was hot, fucking willing and able, and Mickey clearly needed the distraction.

Mickey sidled into the kitchen and was pleased to see a bottle of Jack Daniels already open on the marble island. He reached for a used glass and poured himself a shot which he quickly threw back. He was pouring a second when the movement behind him finally caught Trey’s eye.

“Shit, man!” Trey yelled, spinning around and pulling headphones from his ears. He put a wet hand up to his chest. “You scared the hell outta me.” 

Mickey finished pouring his Jack and reached for a second glass, all the while eyes transfixed on the drops of water now trickling down Trey’s chest toward his perfectly toned stomach.

“Sorry,” Mickey murmured, as Trey began to approach the island, forgoing a towel and simply rubbing his hands down the sides of his pants to dry them.

He watched with interest as Mickey filled the second glass. “So how was the party?”

Mickey slid the second shot over to Trey before quickly throwing back his own, sucking in his cheeks as the liquid went down fast and quick. Smacking his lips slightly and biting his cheek, he looked at Trey. “Don’t want to talk. How ‘bout we just cut the chitchat and you get on me.” It wasn’t a question.

Trey smirked and quickly downed his shot before walking over to Mickey and boxing him in against the kitchen island. He stared lasciviously into Mickey’s eyes as he unbuckled Mickey’s belt.  He reached up with one hand to grab Mickey by the back of the neck and started to move in to kiss him, but Mickey dodged his lips and huffed, “None of that shit. Just get in me.”

Trey’s smirk grew and he nodded his head, “Just a fuck? I can be down with that—you ready?”

“Did I fucking stutter? Get the fuck in me.” Mickey reached into his pocket, pulling out a condom and slamming it on the counter without breaking his heated eye contact with Trey. Now that the decision had been made he was impatient. The quicker Trey got in him, the quicker he could maybe forget about Ian fucking Gallagher, even if only for a few minutes. “Use what you got—”

It was all the permission Trey needed. He roughly flipped Mickey around and pulled down Mickey’s pants and boxer briefs in one swift motion. He let his own sweats fall down to pool around his ankles before grabbing the condom off the counter, ripping it open with his teeth, and hastily sliding it on.  He spit into his hand and quickly coated his covered cock to give it extra lubrication. He used his other hand to force Mickey down over the top of the island while he guided his cock into Mickey’s entrance without any hesitation, pausing only briefly once he bottomed out.

Mickey’s knuckles whitened around edge of the counter. He hissed at the burn but he welcomed it. The physical pain he was feeling was making his brain shut off all the emotional shit that was looming. When Trey started to move, Mickey could almost forget…

Trey pulled back and then roughly slammed this entire length into Mickey.

_The color of Ian’s eyes._

In and out.

T _he feel of Ian’s skin._

Trey increased his speed.

_The taste of Ian’s lips._

Mickey heard Trey spit again to add more lubrication. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut as he was being pounded and pushed into the counter. He loosened his grip on the edge and his arms splayed out across the island, causing one of the shot glasses to crash to the floor and making the bottle of Jack teeter dangerously.

“Fuck yeah, get it,” huffed Mickey breathlessly.

Trey reached around, shoving his hand over Mickey’s mouth. “Lick,” he commanded. 

Trey was ever the aggressor and hell if it wasn’t exactly what Mickey needed in that moment. Mickey licked a fat line across the palm of Trey’s hand, taking each of his fingers into his mouth for good measure.  When he was done, Trey moved his hand down and grabbed Mickey’s dripping cock. He thumbed at the slit, spreading Mickey’s precum all over his member and immediately started pumping his hand from base to tip at the same rhythm he was pounding into Mickey’s ass. Both men where breathing heavily and it was clear that neither would be able to last very long. Mickey started pushing back to meet each thrust so Trey removed his other hand from Mickey’s hip and instead wrapped it around Mickey’s throat, pulling his head slightly back and applying just enough pressure to bring Mickey closer to the edge.

Trey breathed out heavily, “Come on, baby,” releasing Mickey’s throat and smacking Mickey’s ass cheek, causing a burning sting.

“Ah fuck!” Mickey exhaled and his vision whited out as he violently came all over Trey’s hand, whose own release followed close behind.

Trey rested inside Mickey for about half a minute while both men tried to regain their breath. Finally he straightened up, slapping Mickey’s ass one more time before pulling out, pulling up his pants, and disposing of the condom. “Fuck that was real good. I knew as soon as I saw you that I wouldn’t be disappointed. You’re a fucking needy little bottom Jake – and I like it. This could be a great couple of weeks.”

Mickey’s legs felt weak and his head was spinning but he pushed up off the kitchen island and reached down to pull up his boxer briefs and jeans. Without looking at Trey he grabbed the bottle of Jack off the counter, not bothering to grab the one remaining shot glass, and turned to walk towards his room. “Yeah Trey…was good. I’ll see ya.”

As he stumbled down the hallway, stomach churning once again, Mickey realized he didn’t feel any fucking better about anything. And worse, he had no fucking idea what to do about it. Trey had provided a welcome distraction and quick release, but now Mickey was left only with a sore ass and the hope that he would find a more permanent solution at the bottom of Trey’s bottle of Jack. But less than an hour later the whiskey was gone and Mickey was no closer to having any of the answers he sought. His last conscious thought as the empty bottle hit the floor and his head hit the pillow was simply of red hair and sad green eyes. Then all was black.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey takes a trip down memory lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Rape, excessive and graphic violence, homophobic language.  
> This one will be hard to read. It was damn hard to write.   
> General warning: Heartbreak ahead.  
>  But I promise, everything will be ok.
> 
> Again, a heartfelt thank you to @ms.gallavich (IG) for her edits and words of encouragement.  
> Come find me on Instagram @gallavich_kismet

1.

_Ian stood tall, naked and beautifully illuminated by the dull morning light filtering through the patchwork curtains strung up across the living room windows. Outside everything still looked cold and grey, but inside the Milkovich house Mickey felt warm and safe for the first time in as a long as he could remember._

_“How’s that fun for me?” Ian was looking at Mickey playfully, holding up the large ben wa beads before tossing them to the floor with a devilish smirk._

_“Come oooon.” Mickey couldn’t stop a bashful smile from breaking over his face as Ian turned him around and guided him over to the couch.  “Alright, okay, just easy on the injured cheek.”_

_“I’ll just go on the other one alright? Relax.” Ian bent Mickey gingerly over the back of the couch and placed a hand gently on Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey laughed. “Yeah,” he scoffed, not really believing a word Ian was saying but suddenly unable to care any less. They had both let their guards down completely. They were two boys teetering on the edge of love and were both free within that moment to reciprocate their feelings for one another._

_This time was different. It wasn’t a hurried, anxious bang in the walk-in refrigerator of the Kash and Grab, or a rough, uncomfortable fuck among the bricks and broken glass of the old abandoned building they frequented. Gripping the soft material of the blanket he felt beneath his fingers, Mickey allowed himself to be open and vulnerable while Ian worked slowly and deliberately, entering into Mickey with gentle care._

_This time was different. Every measured thrust, in and then out. Every held breath followed by each soft moan. All were filled with a tenderness that they wouldn’t allow themselves to have before, but were now happy to be exploring._

_This time was different. Until without warning their newly built world came crashing down—_

_“What the fuck?!” Terry’s hulking figure was momentarily framed by the open door, but in the next instant he had slammed it closed and was barreling into the room toward them, blind with rage._

_Ian pulled away from Mickey and quickly stumbled into his boxers, but Terry was already almost on top of him._

_“Dad! Dad hold on! Hold on!” Mickey pleaded, scrambling off the couch but unable to move fast enough to get to Ian first._

_“What? Mandy wasn’t enough for you?” Terry’s balled fist to Ian’s face was like a sledgehammer coming down on dry wall.  Ian fell back gracelessly onto the loveseat but Terry followed him down, pressing him into the lumpy cushions. “You sick piece of shit!” Terry was relentless, throwing haymakers left and right, pummeling Ian’s face again and again with a ferocity Mickey knew all too well._

_Mickey lunged across the room and threw himself on his father’s back, shouting with everything he had. “Get off him! Get the fuck off of him!”_

_He managed to pull Terry away from Ian and the two stumbled backwards onto the couch, Mickey’s arms wrapped tightly around his father’s neck. But Terry was a raging bull. He easily broke from Mickey’s grasp and flipped over onto his son, pinning him down and turning both his rage and his fists onto Mickey. “No son of mine is going to be a goddamn AIDS monkey!” he gritted out between crushing blows to Mickey’s face._

_By now Terry was tiring but it hardly mattered. Mickey’s attempts to hold his father off were weakening with every hit that rained down. Blood was pooling in his mouth, threatening to choke him, and his vision was darkening around the edges until all he could see was the undisguised hate in his father’s eyes. But still he tried to cling to consciousness, to fight, for Ian’s sake._

_Just then Ian made an attempt to run from the room – either to go looking for help or simply to get away Mickey would never know –  but Terry was quick on the draw, removing the pistol he had tucked in the back of his pants with practiced ease and aiming it directly at Ian. “Sit your ass down, fucking ass-digger,” he spit out around labored breaths._

_Terry used the gun to motion to the couch, keeping it trained on Ian the entire time it took for him to move back across the living room. Terry’s other hand was maintaining a heavy pressure on Mickey’s chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. Mickey tried to form the words that might convince his father to let up, but all he could manage was a pathetic, guttural groan. Mickey reached up to clutch at his father’s face in a silent plea for him to stop, to please let Ian go, anything. It was his last attempt at a plea to spare their lives. Terry looked down at his son with a look of utter disgust and disdain and brought the butt of the pistol down like a hurricane on Mickey’s head. Mickey’s body went limp and his vision blurred. The last bit of fight left in him withered completely._

_Terry pushed himself up off of Mickey’s battered body and started to pace slightly in front of the couch. He was visibly seething like an angry caged animal, but the gun which kept a petrified Ian pinned to the loveseat never wavered. With his other hand he freed a cellphone from the front pocket of his jeans and dialed._

_The last thing Mickey heard before succumbing to the encroaching darkness chilled him to the bone._

_“It’s Terry. Send over the Russian.”_

_***_ ~~~~

_The first thing to pull Mickey from the void was a persistent ringing in his ears.  He slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurry at first but gradually came into focus. He realized he was looking up at an old, dingy ceiling, smoke and water stained, cracked and peeling. He was lying flat on his back against something soft, though its rough spun fabric scratched at his naked skin. Mickey tried to take in a deep, calming breath but stopped short when he felt a sharp pain along the left side of his chest; several bruised or broken ribs most likely. All the same, his nose filled with the familiar scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and skunked beer. He was in his childhood home._

_He tentatively licked at his dry lips and could taste the metallic bitterness of blood that covered them like a sadistic Chapstick. He tried to move ever so slightly and pain immediately radiated not just in his chest, but throughout his entire body, making him think he surely got hit by a Mack truck. He brought the heel of his hand to his head as he slowly moved into a sitting position, grimacing all the while._

_He was still on his couch in his living room in the South Side, the dull light coming in through the drawn curtains casting the entire room an eerie glow and providing the only source of illumination in the otherwise dark house. He slowly stood up and willed his eyes to take in the scene before him. Everything appeared the same as he remembered, but something was off. Mickey was struck by the silence. There was not a breath of noise, save for the ringing in his head, as if all other sound had been sucked from the room._

_With great trepidation he slowly turned his head to the left and his stomach dropped, as he knew it would. There sat a boxer-clad Ian in the armchair next to the TV, face already bruising, dried blood snaking a path from his nose all the way down his chest. He didn’t look up as Mickey approached, his gaze fixed straight ahead, frozen, his bloodied face contorted by a look of sheer terror._

_Mickey reached out a trembling hand to place on Ian’s warm shoulder but still he was unmoving. Mickey slowly followed Ian’s unbroken gaze across the room, over to where his father sat, also frozen, in his favorite recliner. Terry’s eyes and pistol both were trained directly at Ian, a look of pure loathing etched on his face, his thumb midway through cocking the hammer._

_Mickey’s breath hitched in his throat as he realized he was trapped in his own personal hell, the point of culmination, the beginning of the end, where everything had turned to absolute shit._

_Mickey noticed that the ringing in his ears was starting to subside, if just a little, when he heard the soft click of the front door being closed and slow, deliberate footsteps approaching. In walked Ian, from another time. He was wearing a heavy green winter coat with a short plaid scarf tied in a loose knot around his neck. It was the same Ian one who had come to say goodbye to Mandy the morning he had taken off for the army. He ambled into the living room, a resigned look upon his face, and leaned lazily against the arched entry way. He tilted his head to rest against the jamb and directed a knowing, resentful gaze at Mickey before freezing in place, eyes hooded but unblinking._

_“Ian?”_

_Mickey turned to look down at the shirtless Ian sitting frozen in the armchair and back again to this second Ian dressed in the heavy winter coat, his head spinning. But before he had time to contemplate what was happening he heard the click of the front door a second time and light footsteps approaching once again._

_This time, the young man who entered the living room barely resembled Ian at all. He was clad in tiny black spandex shorts, a black mesh tank top, and had a black feathered boa draped across his shoulders. The thick black eyeliner smudged around his eyes only highlighted their glassy, dazed appearance, their usual sharp green blown out and clearly clouded from drugs. Ian’s Curtis persona seemed to float rather than walk through the room, swinging and rolling his hips through the archway and over to Terry’s recliner. He straddled Terry to grind against him, as if a certain song was playing that only he could hear._

_“What’s happening? Wha- what are you doing?”_

_Mickey watched horrified as this “Curtis” spun around and rocked his ass along Terry’s groin, throwing his head back the same way he had once done when dancing for Mickey when Mickey found him at the club after he had been missing. Terry was still locked in the same position, gun and gaze directed at the Ian in the armchair. Just when Mickey thought he couldn’t possibly watch for another second, Curtis slowed his grind and came to a halting stop, ass resting on Terry’s thigh, head facing forward once again, his vacant gaze directly on Mickey._

_Mickey’s chest tightened painfully as he heard the now familiar click of the front door for the third time. He counted the heavy, labored footsteps approaching until another Ian entered the room. This Ian was older than the others, weary and worn. He had on a blue plaid shirt, buttoned to his chest, and his hair was long and tousled. He looked thin and drawn out, but worst were his eyes which were heavily bagged and bloodshot. Here was the Ian who had returned after running away with Monica to ultimately question Mickey’s definition of love and to break up with him._

_“Ian, what- what the fuck is going on?” Mickey’s voice broke with anxiety. “How did you get here?”_

_But this Ian gave no indication that he could hear anything Mickey said. He simply walked past the younger Ian still frozen in the archway, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, and sidled up behind the couch. He remained there, slouching apathetically, red-rimmed eyes locked on Mickey even as they seemed to look right through him. Then this Ian too, froze in place like all the others._

_Mickey turned once more to look down at the Ian closest to him, running his thumb lightly over the fresh bruise that had blossomed under his left eye. When nothing changed and the stillness of the room became too much, he slowly made his way through the room, dipping his head as he passed by the Ian straddling his father’s lap and avoiding the resentful gaze of the Ian resting in the archway, until he came face to face with the Ian standing behind the couch. Mickey reached up and brushed the stray strand of hair from his forehead and looked into his vacant eyes, willing him to see. He placed his hand gingerly on Ian’s cheek and sighed heavily. The buildup of angst in Mickey’s chest was nearly unbearable._

_Still there was no change. No sound except for the pounding of his own heart. Eventually he dropped his hand in defeat and made his way back around the couch to stand in the middle of the room, unsure what else to do. He felt heavy with the gazes of the Ians from his past and could feel an extreme sadness pulling him down, as though he might sink right through the cigarette-burned carpet. Mickey was certain he couldn’t take another gaze on him. Every Ian in the room evoked a memory of one of the hardest moments of his life. Every staring face a silent reminder of their shaky past. A reminder that their timing had never been right. A reminder that each of these Ians had taken a piece of his heart until there was little left behind._

_Mickey continued to stand in the center of the room, at the center of all the vacant expressions, and squeezed his eyes shut for several minutes? seconds? hours? until he heard the tell-tale sound of the front door open and close yet again. He listened to the distinctive click-clack of high heeled shoes until they stopped, and though the sense of foreboding nearly overwhelmed him, Mickey reluctantly opened his eyes. There a few feet in front of him stood Svetlana, looking like she did all those years ago, her hair cheaply cut, her makeup brash, and her dress several sizes too small.  Without a word she pulled her skintight dress up and over her head, completely exposing herself, and let it fall in a pile on the floor. With a single step she closed the distance between them and grasped Mickey’s upper arms. Looking directly in his eyes she said unwaveringly, “I must fuck faggot out of you.”_

_Mickey looked back at Svetlana, his blue eyes filling with tears—his pain and exhaustion and heartache making him unable to bring the heels of his hands up to stop them from falling. There would be no willing them back this time. He barely held Svetlana’s determined gaze as he whispered a hopeless plea, “I don’t want to.” He hung his head as the tears finally spilled and washed down his face. “Please. Don’t. Don’t make me do this.”_

_Svetlana reached up and tenderly lifted his chin so she could see directly into his eyes once more. In that moment Mickey felt as helpless as a small child. Every tear he was shedding was for every tear he had never shed growing up. And fuck if it didn’t hurt every fiber of his being.  Each tear that fell was slowly killing him. Svetlana looked into his eyes with a stern sense of understanding._

_“Come. We must do this. To save lives. To make life. You know what happens after. There is no opportunity for change. This is it. This is way it must be. For all of us.”_

_She gently pushed him down onto the couch and straddled him, sliding his boxers down just enough to be able to guide him inside of her. At the moment of penetration, a flurry of activity began all at once, like electricity coming back on after a long power outage. Suddenly there was movement and sounds all around them._

_As Svetlana established a rhythm, Mickey looked over at the Ian sitting in the armchair, blood now drying to a crust on both his face and chest. This Ian watched as Svetlana rode Mickey, his green eyes filling with tears, his face a grimace. He brought a fist up to his mouth and bit down, as if that pain would lessen the pain of the scene before him. As if by biting his fist he could will his tears from falling._

_Across the room Curtis had resumed his lap dance, seemingly unaware of anything else going on around him. Terry did not try to push him off, but simply relaxed into his recliner, a sick smile playing across his face, his right hand laying on the armrest, his pistol still trained on the scared and anguished Ian now perched on the edge of the armchair._

_To Mickey’s right, the jacket-clad Ian continued to lean against the arched door jamb, arms crossed casually, looking down at Mickey pinned to the couch as if none of it mattered. As if nothing had ever mattered._

_Mickey tilted his head up to look behind him where the apathetic Ian still had his hands in his pockets, though his eyes were now fixed firmly on his feet, refusing to acknowledge what was happening right in front of him. He shifted restlessly, pacing a bit like a lost soul, clearly unsure what to do or say._

_All of the pain and indifference and apathy were suddenly much more than Mickey could bear. He couldn’t stand to look at any of these versions of Ian a second longer.  All he wanted was to close his eyes, to just disappear, but instead he found himself suddenly flipping Svetlana over onto her back and pounding into her. It was as though he had no control over his body anymore as his hips involuntarily started to thrust._

_Just then he heard the front door click shut again and in walked a fifth and final Ian, the oldest yet, dressed as he had been the day he let Mickey cross over the Mexican border alone. He was holding his folded green jacket in his arms, standing in the doorway to the living room opposite his younger, jacket-clad counterpart.  He looked around and took in the scene until his eyes finally came to rest on Mickey rocking on top of Svetlana. Mickey lifted his head and cried out, even as his body continued to move unwittingly. He had never cried like this in all his life.  He locked eyes with this newest Ian and looked at him pleadingly with his tear streaked face and bloodshot eyes. ~~~~_

_“Please Ian. Make it all stop. I don’t want to do this. Please help me. Please make it stop.”_

_But Mickey’s cries for help fell upon deaf ears; this Ian appeared as unwillingly or unable to help as all the others. He simply unfolded his coat and reached into one of the pockets to produce an envelope of money which he tossed unceremoniously on the coffee table. Still thrusting and now panting slightly from the effort, Mickey turned his head to follow this Ian as he moved behind the couch until he was hovering directly above him. Ian reached down and ran his hand through Mickey’s hair to rest gently on the back of his head, stroking his thumb along the soft skin behind Mickey’s ear. Mickey’s breath escaped in a huff and he dropped his head forward, even as he continued to pound into Svetlana who was moaning softly beneath him. Mickey could only shakily get out a crying whisper._

_“Please, Ian. Help. Save me. Don’t leave me here.”_

_With a small, bittersweet smile Ian lifted his hand away from Mickey’s neck. “This isn’t me anymore.” And with that, he turned and walked from the living room and out the front door._

_As if taking their cue, all the other Ians immediately followed suit—apathetic Ian briefly locked eyes with Mickey before awkwardly lumbering from the room, hands still in his pockets and shoulders hunched,  as though they carried the weight of the world; Curtis did a final grind, stroking his hand down Terry’s face and then sauntered from the room without even sparing a glance in Mickey’s direction; jacket-clad Ian simply let out a quiet, bitter laugh before following the others out, shaking his head ever so slightly the entire way; finally, the Ian who had been there from the beginning rose from the armchair, battered and bruised, but seemingly no longer afraid of the pistol still pointed in his direction – he heaved a heavy, broken sigh as he passed the couch, but like the others before him did not stop to help. Mickey watched them file out, one after another, and pleaded for any one of them to stay._

_“Ian! Please…don’t. Don’t go! Please. Please help me!”_

_As the last Ian disappeared through the door, Terry slowly got up from his recliner and starting walking over to the end of the couch where Mickey was still pushing himself into Svetlana over and over; Mickey noticed she had gone completely silent beneath him and he wondered for the first time if this was hurting her as much as it hurt him._

_He could smell the whiskey on his father’s breath and knew Terry had moved to lean directly over him. Mickey looked up. His face was blood and tear streaked and full of pain. He grimaced as each thrust caused a dry, stinging burn but he didn’t know how to stop. He had no idea how to make all of it just stop._

_Terry looked down at Mickey with all the hate and disgust he could muster.  He brought the pistol up to Mickey’s forehead, pressing the cold metal against his skin._

_“Dad…no…please…” Mickey could barely breathe out these last words._

_“Fucking faggot.” The last remaining piece of Mickey’s heart shattered into a million pieces as Terry pulled the trigger._

“Fuck!” Mickey yelled as his body slammed onto the floor. His heart was pounding furiously, his eyes and cheeks were wet, and he had sweat right through his shirt which now hugged his body like a second skin. He lay panting on the hardwood floor and looked up to see an unfamiliar ceiling, simply relieved it was not the South Side piece of shit he saw in his mind moments earlier.

His pulse continued to race but he tried to will his breathing to steady, doing a relaxation exercise he had learned while in the joint – from Damon of all fucking people. The stupid fuck might not be a lot of things, but when Mickey’s fifteen-year sentence was decided and he’d started waking up every few nights sweaty and shaking from one of several recurring nightmares, Damon had proved to be a good listener. And it’s not like there’s much else to do in a six by eight cell but talk shit through till you’re blue in the face.

Breathe in through the nose – two, three, four – out through the mouth – two, three four.

Each breath Mickey took slowed his heart rate a little more until he felt calm enough to think back to his dream. No. Nightmare. And this one had been far worse than any of the others in the past. The ghost of Terry usually featured prominently, beatings too. Sometimes he’d even relive that day Terry had walked in on him and Ian. But never like this. They never left him feeling as hopeless and abandoned as this one did. They didn’t make him feel this empty.  

_Jesus Christ. Had Ian ever given a fuck?_

2.

Mickey had been unable to fall back to sleep that night, and after several hours of restless tossing and turning he finally gave up and decided to try working through some of his lingering anxiety in Trey’s home gym. Like the rest of Trey’s furnishings, everything in the converted gym looked expensive and brand new. Three of the walls were covered in floor to ceiling mirrors while the fourth supported a hi-definition flatscreen and offered a partial view of downtown Chicago.  Despite the early hour, Mickey turned on Trey’s built-it Bluetooth player and tried to lose himself in the deep, pumping beat of Trey’s synced up playlist. He was able to work through his hangover easily enough, but the memory of his dream and the feelings it had evoked were much harder to shake.

An hour later he had already pushed himself through one circuit of weights and cardio and was back on the bench press for a second time. He was breathing in heavily through his nose, nearly choking on the stink of whiskey coming off of him in waves, but he continued lifting the bar in fast, repetitive lifts, aggressively exhaling through his mouth, trying to push out all memory of the dream with each stale breath of air. His white muscle shirt had long since soaked through and the layer of sweat had it clinging to his chest and stomach, generously showing the outline of the abs he had acquired while in Mexico.

For Mickey, working out had always been nothing more than a way to pass the time when locked up, and was something he generally abandoned once back out in the real world.  When Ian’s alarm would go off at the crack of dawn Mickey would often tease him about his strict exercise routine before his own lazy ass dozed back off for another few hours. Now Mickey understood. The routine of putting his body through its paces was something Ian could own, that he could control, even when his mind was trying to run away from him.  Shortly after getting in with Martinez’s crew, Mickey had started working out again – part of it was to help maintain a tough edge after being branded the new “pretty boy” – but he also found it gave him a measure of control he had never needed before. A way to focus his mind away from all the hurt and disappointment he had brought with him over that border. And ultimately, he started to like how good it made him look and feel.  But today no matter how hard he tried to focus on his body, he couldn’t completely shake from his mind the image of vacant green eyes. The sound of retreating footsteps. The phantom touch of cool metal against his skin. _Fuck_.

He pushed through his final few reps on the bench press before sitting up to catch his breath and take a swig of the blue Gatorade he had swiped from Trey’s fridge. When he was done downing the rest of the bottle he looked forward in the mirror and saw Trey standing in the doorway behind him. Fuck, he did not want to deal with his cocky ass right now, especially after calling to mind some of the finer details of what had gone down in the kitchen the previous night. Choosing not to acknowledge his presence and hoping he would just take the hint, Mickey laid back down on the bench to start his next set of reps. No such luck. Trey cleared his throat over the club mix still pumping through the surround sound and entered the room.

“Morning, Jake. You need a spot?” Trey was slowly snaking his way through the various machines in the room so that he could sidle up behind Mickey, who grunted brusquely as he ripped through his reps.

“Nah man, I’m good.”

“I can see that. But let me spot you anyway – it’s safer.” Mickey didn’t need to look up to know that Trey’s eyes were boring into him. He could feel the intensity of his gaze right through to his bones, and where before it might have turned him on a little, now it only served to remind Mickey of the way he had felt in his dream under the pressure of  four identical pairs of unblinking green eyes.

Trey was now standing by Mickey’s head, looking down at him and wetting his lips suggestively, soaking in every inch of Mickey’s cut figure.   Mickey hazarded a quick glance at him and immediately regretted it. _Did the guy not own a fucking shirt?_ He started counting down his reps from ten while trying to fix his eyes on an imaginary spot on the ceiling and not at Trey’s obvious hard on which was just inches from his face. He was wearing the same low-hanging grey sweats as last night, but it was clear he had just come from a shower; his dark hair, long in the front, hung in damp tendrils across his forehead, and the smell of his clean skin so close to Mickey was intoxicating.

  _Fucking faggot._ Terry’s voice seeped in through Mickey’s ear unbidden like a poison.

“Look man, as much as I appreciate you looking out for my safety or whatever, I don’t need a spot and I certainly don’t need your fucking dick hovering the fuck above my face.” Mickey slammed the bar up and down in its setting and got up quickly to give himself some space from Trey. He moved across the room to start working with the free weights again.

Trey threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey Jake, it’s all good. I get it! You’re not a morning person, that’s fine.” He followed Mickey through the gym, ghosting his hand over the row of free weights that lined the wall. “I just figured, there’s nothing a quick fuck can’t cure, especially a case of morning crankiness,” he said with a knowing smirk. Trey was standing directly in front of Mickey now, beginning to finger the front of Mickey’s shirt, trailing a slender digit first up his chest and then bringing it down to trace Mickey’s abs which were defined through the sticky fabric. Mickey’s breath hitched as Trey’s finger started to dip into the elastic of his shorts.

_Fucking faggot._

On any other day, Mickey would have gladly dropped everything and had Trey suck him off right there, but the ghost of his father was fucking with his head and he couldn’t shake the deep sense of self hate he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d seen Terry in the flesh.

“I’m good,” Mickey sneered, and pulled away from Trey’s wandering hand.  

Trey merely smirked and looked Mickey in the eye, his confidence unwavering and the rejection only seeming to increase his desire. He brazenly slid a hand down the front of his own loose sweats and gave his cock a few slow, measured strokes.   “Hard to get is making me harder, Jake. Why don’t you help take care of this for me?” Mickey felt a familiar pull deep in his groin and his pulse quickened in spite of himself.

_Fucking faggot_.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” Mickey snarled, abruptly dropping the weights he had been holding and pushing past Trey to hurry from the room.

Trey just chuckled as he watched Mickey stalk down the hallway, clenching and unclenching his fists in obvious agitation before disappearing into the guest room and slamming the door closed with finality. Trey smiled and turned to the empty gym. “Some other time then.”

3.

Mickey took a quick shower, letting the scalding water wash over him completely as he scrubbed furiously at his reddening skin, trying in vain to scour off all of the events of the past 24 hours. He then threw on his jeans from the night before with a cream-colored Henley hoodie, and covered his wet blonde hair with a fitted White Sox cap which he tugged low to hood his eyes.  Before leaving his room he grabbed some last-minute items to fill his pockets—smokes, lighter, phone, keys, and an envelope filled with cash. If nothing else Mickey’s nightmare had provided him with some clarity about one thing: he needed to be done with every last connection to Ian fucking Gallagher and that included paying back all his fucking guilt money. Fucking prick. He grabbed a pen from his bag and scrawled Ian’s name on the front of the envelope before sealing it securely. Mickey’s plan was to just slip the envelope through the mail slot at the house on Wallace and hope for the best. He wasn’t even sure Ian still lived there, but it was all he could think to do for the time being.  All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t be tied to his past any longer, and the faster he could give back the money, the quicker he could move on from that part of it completely. 

Mickey slipped out of his room and quickly made his way through the condo, trying to avoid any further run-ins with Trey. Mandy was right, the guy was relentless, and while normally Mickey would enjoy playing Trey’s little games, giving as good as he could take, running into Ian at that party had really fucked him up, and the memory of his father and of Ians past was having a lingering effect. Trying to put it out of his head hadn’t worked, so maybe Mickey just needed to throw himself into it all, one last time. When he stepped out of Trey’s building into the bright morning light he simply stood and let the sun warm his face for several seconds before deciding to forgo his obtrusive SUV and join the slow trickle of Sunday morning commuters heading towards the train, ready to take a final trip down old memory lane.

The L was still pretty quiet – mostly just a few well-dressed families probably on their way to church and a handful of sleepy, ruffled looking individuals who were clearly just now heading home for the first time after being out all night. By the time the train rolled into the South Side Mickey had a car almost entirely to himself, and sat with his head pressed against the window, thinking back to how many times he done this ride before. Back when he lived in fear. In fear of Terry. Of the people in his neighborhood recognizing him for what he was. Of Ian. But ultimately living in fear of himself.  He thought about how far he had come in accepting himself since then— in accepting that liking what he liked didn’t make him no goddamn bitch—and how a huge part of that acceptance was thanks to Ian. Fuck if he was stepping foot back in the closet ever again, but that dream had him reeling. He couldn’t stop seeing Ian, in all stages of their past, just giving up. Leaving him behind in the place he hated more than anywhere.  He had tried to be better and to live up to Ian’s standards, to try and be who he wanted him to be so Ian would love him back. Fuck that. He thought they had loved each other but every memory, every Ian from his past who appeared in his dream, was just a painful reminder of what utter bullshit love really was. Fuck love.

Breaking from his reverie, Mickey hopped off the L at a familiar stop and jogged down the stairs, figuring he would cut across the street to grab a fresh pack of smokes and another Gatorade before venturing any further. But as he hopped off the final stair and turned to cross the street he couldn’t help but stop short, his heart skipping a beat.

“What the fuck...?”

A Whole Foods. A colossal fucking hoity toity Whole Foods had replaced the Kash and Grab and the slew of other storefronts that used to make up the small block. Mickey remembered that when he was last home, gentrification had been starting to take over the neighborhood, but at the time he’d figured the South Side was too much of a tough bitch to let those fucking yuppy shits take over completely. Up and coming, his ass. But apparently he’d been wrong. Apparently, the South Side had up and come.   _Fuck_.

As Mickey shuffled aside to let the impatient commuters behind him pass, he couldn’t make sense of why he was as upset as he was. Or maybe he knew exactly why. The fucking Kash and Grab was him and Ian. Ian and him. The beginning of it all. The two of them working together. Spending fucking hours restocking shelves and goofing off together. Standing around just shooting the shit in-between customers—movies, family, weed, whatever the fuck there was to talk about. All that stupid crap that hadn’t really seemed to matter but, now that he looked back on it, mattered a whole fucking lot to him. It had made a difference. Instead of being stuck at home with his Nazi asshole of a father, forced to be the piece of shit thug every Milkovich was expected to be, he got to escape for a few hours every day and spend time with someone who actually seemed to give a shit. Yeah, to anyone else it was just a low-paying job in some little shit convenience store in the middle of the South Side – just a mandatory condition of his release from juvie. But to him it was fucking everything. It was where he first felt free. Free to be a normal fucking kid, free to be himself, to like who he liked, even if only behind closed doors.

Mickey stood there looking at the spot where the Kash and Grab used to be and thumbed at his lip. Memories were passing fleetingly through his mind now. Him and Ian fucking in the back room.   In the walk-in fridge. The two of them standing around with just the counter between them. Laughing. Flirting. Stealing looks at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Ian and his stupid fucking jokes and his corny puns and his laugh that seemed to stem right from his belly.  The Kash and Grab wasn’t just a place to be fuck buddies; it was where he and Ian had started to build a relationship, a friendship, and now that was fucking gone too. _Fuck._

Mickey fished around in his pocket for his smokes and tapped one out, bringing it to his lips and lighting up. With one last wistful look across the street he inhaled the nicotine deep, letting it calm his nerves, and then with a quick thumb to his nose he turned and started to make his way to his next destination.

As he beat a familiar path through his old neighborhood he continued to be struck by how much had changed. Immaculately cut and landscaped lawns, new storefronts and signs, freshly painted hydrants and street lines—it was as if the years of accumulated filth and South Side grime Mickey had grown up with had been spit polished and shined. Sure, there was still a small sprinkling of the old shit box houses he remembered here and there, but for the most part these were just a few ugly weeds among a bed of fucking daisies. Given enough time these would surely be snuffed out too.

Even the people were different. Where were the street corner dealers and the roving packs of kids throwing bottles at old abandoned cars? Where were the back alley glue sniffers or the old homeless guy who used to rave about the end of days around the block from The Alibi? Now all he saw were gangs of nannies pushing strollers and young kids out riding shiny new bikes. And the only person he saw standing on the street corner was some fucking idiot dressed as a pizza handing out coupons for a new restaurant. Mickey could only shake his head in bemused disbelief.

Finally he turned and made his way down Wallace Street toward Ian’s childhood home. As he did he felt a bead of sweat threaten at his temple and reflexively tugged at his baseball cap to bring it yet lower over his face. When he was still a few houses away he could see that someone was sitting out on the front steps, and he quickly crossed over to the far side of the street before slowing his approach and hunching up his shoulders a little as he walked by. He risked a quick glance to his left and saw that it was Fiona and V, a box of cheap wine perched on the steps between them, talking loudly and keeling over in hoarse laughter every so often; it was clear they were already two sheets to the wind despite the fact that it was still early afternoon. They continued their friendly banter as Mickey passed by unnoticed. He would have to circle back and hit the house again later to drop off Ian’s money. As annoyed as he was that he couldn’t just ditch the envelope now, he was relieved to discover that at least one Gallagher still lived there, and that despite what he had seen on his way over, there were still a few things that hadn’t changed in the old neighborhood.

Mickey continued on and about ten minutes later was making his way down a familiar side street with a now unfamiliar look. His feet slowed as he gazed with incredulity towards where he had been heading. _You have got to be fucking kidding me…_

The abandoned building where he used to shoot his guns and he and Ian would spend days and nights drinking, smoking, fucking… it was gone.  Just like the Kash and Grab. Now just another fucking memory. A large sign in front of the still active construction site advertised a condo complex to be ready for new residents to move in by 2019, but already on the ground floor a number of businesses were up and running, including a Wi-Fi café and an enormous state of the art gym. Mickey watched as a group of middle-aged, yoga pant wearing women, distinguishable only by the different colored mats they each carried, came walking down the newly paved sidewalk toward him, clucking like a bunch of fucking hens.  _Jesus._

Mickey had really not been expecting any of this.  Before getting locked up he knew shit was happening fast – Tommy and his crew had been having a field day with all the tear down jobs coming their way – but to see the end result, to realize how much could change after only being away a few years… Mickey was finding it all terribly unnerving. He didn’t even feel like he was in the South Side anymore. Nothing felt familiar. Nothing felt like home. Had it ever?

_With Ian, yes_.

The thought snuck up on Mickey before he could stop it, but he immediately knew that it was true. The whole fucking day so far had been a reminder of that.

Feeling nostalgic and now getting a bit desperate to find any physical semblance of home Mickey decided to roll the dice and take a trip to his old house. Plus he still hadn’t been able to shake all of the feelings that last night’s dream had roused within him – feelings strongly tied to his childhood and growing up in that house. Terry was dead. Rumor had it he messed with the wrong fucking queer during his last stint in the clink – some big bear of a guy who didn’t take lightly to all of Terry’s fag bashing – and he ended up getting shanked in the shower. Talk about fucking karma. So why couldn’t he get his father’s hate-filled voice out of his head? Or the sound of Terry’s gun being brought down on his face – the sick crunch of metal smashing bone? Maybe seeing the old rundown dump would bring him the sort of closure he craved.

Rather than continue down the main road that would take him back to his old street, Mickey decided on a shortcut that would let him walk most of the way beneath the L . He quickly cut through a few fenced backyards and was soon stomping through the thick grass that grew between the tall, concrete pillars supporting the tracks, enjoying the familiar screech of metal on metal every few minutes as a train passed overhead. As he walked he tried to imagine what kind of shape the old house would be in. Mandy had mentioned that his brothers had all gone their separate ways once Mickey had been incarcerated, and he knew sure as shit that Mandy hadn’t been back since she’d landed on her feet in New York. So he was prepared to see the house empty and abandoned, maybe even boarded up, but he never considered the possibility that it might not be there at all. He approached from under the tracks and walked right up to the edge of the sidewalk, staring numbly at the large pile of rubble standing before him. The house was gone. The fence, the junk littering the front yard, the old dresser that had sat out on the front porch for so long Mickey couldn’t even remember where it had come from. Anything and everything Milkovich was gone. It looked like fucking gentrification had got his house too.

The pile of bricks, concrete, and bits of wood was too big to have been from his house alone; it looked rather like the property was being used as a construction dumping site for useless rubble and debris. There was a tall chain link fence surrounding the entire place with a Swanson Construction, Inc. sign posted along at each fence post and warning signs of ‘Keep Out’ and ‘Private Property.’ Fuck that. Mickey took a quick look over his shoulder before climbing the fence and hopping over to roam through the lot. ~~~~

Bits of broken glass crunched beneath his shoes as he walked around looking at where his childhood home used to stand. Where the lawn chairs and car parts would have been littered throughout the yard. Where the cracked concrete steps led up to the front door which had been famous for almost always being left unlocked. He could picture where the kitchen would have been, where for years he and his siblings survived on frozen pizza bagels and anything else that could be easily microwaved; where much later on Svetlana would take simple breakfast orders from Ian and all of them would eat together in the dining room, even Iggy and their retarded cousin Jacob – their very own fucked up version of sitting down for a family meal.

Mickey then made his way to where the living room would have been. Where Terry found him together with Ian. Where Terry held Ian at gun point and had Mickey raped. Where Terry pistol whipped him. Where Terry basically began to pull the thread that would eventually unravel what he and Ian had just started to build. Where he threw the wrench in the spinning gear of what his and Ian’s relationship could have been. Maybe if none of that had ever happened—if Terry never had the Russian come, if Svetlana hadn’t gotten pregnant, if they hadn’t been forced to marry – then maybe Ian would never have left for the army. He wouldn’t have pulled any of the shit that had the MPs issuing a warrant for his arrest. Maybe Mickey could have saved Ian before his mom’s fucking disease came and messed with his mind. Maybe he could have prevented everything that came after that too…

Mickey felt a sharp prickle behind his eyes and picked up a broken chunk of concrete to rocket across the yard. It split cleanly in two with a sharp crack as it hit one of the still standing foundation posts of the house, one piece coming to rest right there at its base while the other tumbled away and out of sight in a thicket of thorny weeds. Mickey sighed heavily before taking out a cigarette and looking around. He felt pretty well hidden from anyone possibly passing by. _Fuck it._ Mickey lit his smoke and pocketed his lighter before unzipping his pants and pulling out his dick to take a piss right where he stood.

“Fuck you Dad.”

He shook off for good measure and zipped back up, smiling smugly around his cigarette. Satisfied he’d now done what he’d needed to, Mickey turned to go back out the way he’d came. Cigarette still dangling from the corner of his mouth, he climbed the fence and landed somewhat awkwardly on the sidewalk, and as he did he thought of one last thing he had to do. He looked around on the ground until he found what he needed and walked over to the nearest “Keep Out” sign hanging about halfway up the fence. He started scratching onto the sign with an old, crooked nail while taking long pulls from his cigarette and inhaling the nicotine as deeply as he could. He surveyed his work a few minutes later, finishing his smoke and tossing it to the side along with the rusty nail. Taking one last look at the sign that now read “Keep THE FUCK Out”, Mickey stepped back from the fence, threw up both middle fingers in the air, and turned on his heel, walking off down the street without ever looking back.

4.

Mickey had ended up roaming around the South Side for the majority of the day, taking in everything that was new but all the while keeping a hopeful eye out for anything familiar, anything that might still feel like home. But now it was getting close to 5 o’clock and Mickey still had to swing back around to the Gallagher’s house to ditch Ian’s money before making his way back to up to Trey’s to get ready for the engagement he had later that night. He was also starting to feel that he might be pushing his luck hanging around in his old neighborhood for so long, so he set off towards the one last place he felt he needed to hit. He had finally been able to quiet the hateful voice of his father after stopping by his old house – or rather, what was left of it – and now he just needed to get Ian out of his head in the same way. He needed to get this all out of his fucking system.

For some reason Mickey had been putting off coming here all day, and as he turned the corner and caught his first glimpse of the thick line of trees that partially obscured the spot from the road his palms immediately started to sweat. He wiped his hands distractedly on the front of his jeans as he fought to reign in all the different emotions trying to pull him in several different directions at once. He didn’t even grasp what it was he was seeing until he had already walked through the trees and right up to the chain link fence behind them. When he finally took it all in, his heart at long last dropped right through the hard knot that had been forming in the pit of his stomach all day.

“Oh come the fuck on…”

He stood at the fence, his fingers grasping the links at either side of his face as he peered through at the ruined remains of the baseball field, now completely torn up. There were some abandoned diggers and a large bulldozer scattered throughout the work site, but the fence behind home plate where he now stood and the dugout along what would have been the third base line were the only things that proved the field had ever been there. 

Mickey took in a deep breath, willing himself to hold it the fuck together. He felt sick, but eventually he let go of the fence and made his way over to the spot where he knew he could climb up and over to drop directly down into the dugout. As he did he was hit by the unmistakable smell of weed. Someone was definitely smoking up in the dugout and fuck if he couldn’t use a hit right then, ain’t no use in being shy about it. It was probably just some stupid kids hanging out, like him and Ian used to do. He didn’t think he had to be too worried about getting fingered by a bunch of potheads.

Mickey hopped the fence, like he had done so many times before, and turned to take the few steps that led down into the dugout where all he could see were the brown soles of a pair of heavy boots laid out on the bench, toes pointed up towards the sky. Someone was lying down, head near the far end of the dugout, hidden from Mickey at first sight as he skipped the final step and landed with a muted thud on the worn cement. Upon hearing his approach, the person swung a pair of impossibly long legs down to the ground and brought themselves up to a sitting position.

Mickey stopped. His eyes locked once again with that all too familiar green.

* * *

Ian slowly blew out the hit he’d taken just moments before he’d realized someone else had arrived at the dugout. He couldn’t say why, but he wasn’t at all surprised to find that it was Mickey. Ian immediately felt a sense of complete calm wash over him. Maybe it was just the weed starting to kick in. Maybe it was where they were or simply being back in Mickey’s presence again. Whatever it was, it was a kind of peace like he hadn’t experienced in years. He soaked in every detail of Mickey’s face – from the genuine surprise in his eyes to the nervous twitch of his lips – and as he did all of the tension that had been wound up in every cell of Ian’s body since the moment Mickey stormed out of that bathroom the night before melted away all at once.

The silence between them lengthened and in that time Ian could see on Mickey’s face exactly how he felt about their old spot being dug up. It was the same way he imagined his own face must have looked the first time he had seen it like this. He immediately thought of all the other changes Mickey must have seen on his way over there and Ian’s mouth slowly turned up into a sad, yet understanding half smile. He held out the joint, knowing Mickey would take it.

“Welcome home, Mick.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian deals with the aftermath of reuniting with Mickey, emotionally and mentally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per usual, thank you @ms.gallavich (IG) for being my fandom sidekick and editor-in-chief.

1.

After leaving the party Ian had dragged himself back to his small, one bedroom apartment in the South Side in a state of complete numbness. Much like when he’d made his way back to Chicago from the Mexican border two years prior, he had just enough presence of mind to pull his body through the necessary motions.

Not even bothering with the lights, Ian walked straight down the narrow hallway towards the back of his apartment, stripping as he went and leaving a trail of clothes that led from the front door to his small, sparsely furnished bedroom. Even though the night was still hot and sticky, Ian pulled up the heavy comforter that had been balled up near the foot of his bed all summer, and underneath its weight he wrapped his arms tightly around his pillow, opting to rest his cheek flat against the mattress.   

Ian lay like that for hours, unmoving, unable to think of anything besides Mickey. His eyes. His lips. _God, his smell._

The room felt unnaturally still and was illuminated only by the red glow from the clock on the nightstand which seemed to grow brighter the longer Ian watched the time creep up slowly towards dawn.

_1:34._

_2:17._

_3:42._  

The night’s earlier events replayed through his wakeful mind on a continuous loop. The way his heart had started hammering in his chest the second Mickey’s eyes had locked with his own. The feel of Mickey’s hand gripping the back of his neck, of his tattooed fingers running roughly through his hair. The taste of Mickey on his tongue which he imagined lingered there even now, taunting him. Then the dripping contempt in Mickey’s voice when he called him nothing but a twink. The cold finality when he had said that they were done.

_4:05._

Eventually Ian was able to break from his miserable reverie long enough to recognize that sleep was never going to come without some sort of prescribed aid. He reluctantly released his vice-like hold on his pillow and dragged himself out from under the covers, padding out of his bedroom and following the breadcrumb trail of clothes back down the hallway towards the bathroom. He had some leftover Ambien in his medicine cabinet which he quickly threw back, bending down to bring a cupped hand of water to his mouth. Then, with his head still bent, Ian forced shaking hands to press firmly against the cold porcelain of the sink and slowly raised his gaze to the mirror. Jesus, he looked like shit.

He licked water from his chapped lips and took in the waxy pallor of his skin before staring into his own green eyes for several long minutes. They were bloodshot and tired looking, and he could see in them every fucking emotion he felt at that moment—sadness, longing, guilt, regret. Emptiness.

When he couldn’t bear his own reflection for a second more he dropped his head back down between his shoulders and drew in a long, shuttering breath. Ian knew that lack of sleep was not good for his illness. Already he could feel himself being pulled down into a depressive rut and he knew not getting any rest was only going to expedite the process. Hoping the sleeping pills would do the trick, he drew himself back up and turned away from the mirror without another glance.

Ian headed back down the hall to his bedroom where he settled in on top of the covers, once again wrapping his arms around his pillow instead of using it beneath his head. For a time he lay flat on his back and stared up at the stuccoed ceiling, thinking through all the things he should have said at the party when he had the chance. How he should have chased Mickey out of that bathroom and made him listen.

Finally Ian forced himself to close his eyes, but still the image of Mickey was all he could see. 

His eyes. His mouth. His hands. His cock.

Anything and everything that made up Mickey fucking Milkovich.

His arms. His warmth. His laugh. His smile.

_The smile he once reserved just for me._

In that moment Ian knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to win that smile back. _My smile._ He’d known since the second he’d seen Mickey earlier that night.

Ian wanted it all and this time he was sure he wanted it forever.

He racked his brain for a plan, for a way he could somehow fix it, somehow fix them, but now sleep was finally trying to grab hold of him. With a heavy sigh, Ian rolled onto his side, squeezing the pillow impossibly tighter against his chest, and drifted off into a restless sleep.

***

_Ian makes his way down the familiar street towards Mickey’s childhood home. There is no one around. The streets are empty. No people, no cars. It’s daytime but there is a slight fog in the air and the sky is overcast – Ian has no idea if it’s early morning, late afternoon, or sometime in-between._

_He feels neither hot nor cold as he walks down the center of the street, dressed simply in dark jeans and a light blue t-shirt, but the air around him somehow feels denser than it should. Heavy. The scene is eerie and Ian can’t help but feel like something is wrong. As far as he can tell nothing seems obviously out of place, but as he nears the old Milkovich house he nonetheless feels all of the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight in silent warning._

_He crosses over onto the sidewalk and stops in front of the chain link gate, looking up at the decrepit house at the end of the block. The front door is wide open, but there are no sounds coming from inside. Something definitely feels off and Ian’s sense of unease intensifies._

_The gate opens with a creak and Ian starts to make his way up the concrete path that cuts through the junk littering the front yard. Still he hears no sounds from inside the house but he is suddenly overcome with a sense of urgency he can’t explain. He tries to take the steps two at a time but his legs feel like jelly and his feet like lead. No matter how hard he tries he cannot move fast enough._

_Just as panic threatens to overwhelm him, Ian finally makes it to the top of the stairs and walks into the house, the wooden door closing behind him with a soft click. He stands for a moment just inside and strains his ears but still can hear nothing but his own ragged breathing._

_“Mickey?” he calls out into the silence. “Mandy? Svet?” The house is unnaturally still._

_The sudden sense of urgency Ian felt moments earlier is now just as quickly replaced by one of certain dread. With great trepidation Ian moves further into the darkened house until he is looking in on a familiar scene playing out in the living room to his right. His stomach plummets to his feet._

_He sees himself—younger, bruised and bloody—perched stiffly on the edge of the beat up old armchair on the far side of the room. His younger self is fighting back tears as he watches Mickey fuck Svetlana into the couch aggressively, quickly, trying to get the deed done. Terry sits smoking a cigarette in the recliner in front of the entrance to the living room, pistol trained on young Ian, but eyes trained on his own son fucking himself straight, just like he’d ordered._

_Ian is struck dumb, reeling in the hallway as he is unwillingly transported back to one of the worst moments of his life. The moment where everything changed. Where everything began to unravel._

_Across the room his younger self drops his head and lowers his eyes as a single tear marks a wet track down his cheek; he’s given up, he’s accepted what’s happening. Ian watches frozen from the hallway, his pounding heart echoing loudly in his ears for several beats, but then in the next second he is moving, knowing this time what he needs to do._

_“Mickey! You don’t have to do this!” he shouts, as he starts to make his way into the living room, intent on taking Terry by surprise and getting to Mickey as quickly as he can. But before he can take more than a second step his body slams painfully into some sort of invisible barrier. Ian blinks the stars from his eyes and tries to regain his balance. He reaches out and his hands come to press up against a thick sheet of plexiglass that makes it impossible for him to move any further into the room. He runs his fingers along the glass in every direction but it fills the entire entranceway, keeping him at a frustrating distance, much like the plexiglass window that once kept him from reaching Mickey in juvie. Much like the glass Ian couldn’t bring himself to look through the last time he went to visit Mickey in prison, that time when Mickey had needed him the most._

_“Mickey I’m here! Over here! Fuck, Mickey, look up – I’m here!”_

_Ian fists his hands and bangs roughly on the glass but the scene on the other side continues to play out without interruption. No one can hear him, but he continues to pound the glass, screaming and yelling for it to stop, for everything to stop._

_“Fucking shithead! Get up and do something!”  He’s now yelling at his former self, willing the past to change, praying desperately that his younger self will suddenly spring up from the chair and save the boy he loves the way that boy would come to save him countless times as a man. But just as it had really happened, his past self doesn’t move. He simply rocks gently on the edge of his seat as he continues to bore holes through the carpet with his eyes._

_Ian’s own gaze returns to Mickey. He’s never felt more helpless than he does watching Mickey grimace and grunt as he thrusts into Svetlana, his face screwed up in concentration as if willing himself to finish the deed. Ian knows where this will all lead and he can’t do a damn thing about it. He feels a scream building in his throat and heavy tears forming on his thick eyelashes as he watches Mickey’s face and sees the telltale signs of him being close to coming. He’d seen that look so many times as they grew up together, as they learned each other’s bodies over the years. Now, Ian is sure that that look is going to make him sick. Mickey squeezes his eyes closed, bites his lip, and finally drops his head down, his body trembling as he spills his seed inside Svetlana._

_Ian’s banging fists drop uselessly to his sides. He isn’t going to change anything. He couldn’t stop it from happening. He feels just as worthless as his younger self who sits slumped over his knees across the room. At a loss for what to do, Ian just stands there, trapped behind the plexiglass barrier, shoulders heaving with emotion as tears stream down his face._

_Over on the couch Mickey pushes himself up and off of Svetlana and suddenly turns to look Ian directly in the eye. Ian chokes on a sob as his breath hitches in his throat. As Mickey makes his way over to the glass, slowly and deliberately, everything in the room behind him blurs and darkens until all Ian can see is Mickey standing directly in front of him, fully naked.  His watery eyes rove over Mickey’s purpling chest, the ugly marks Terry’s hands left around his throat, the blood crusted on his face and in his hair. Ian’s own chest constricts so tightly he’s not even sure how he’s continuing to draw air from his lungs. Maybe he’s not._

_Ian gazes anxiously into Mickey’s eyes, trying to communicate every apology he’s ever owed him in that one look. With their eyes still locked, he raises his left hand up to the glass, much like he did that first time he visited Mickey in juvie, only now his need to touch Mickey is so great his hand actually seems to burn upon the cool, unyielding glass._

_Mickey takes in Ian’s desperate, red-rimmed eyes and trembling lip, his own face still and unreadable. He slowly shifts his gaze to Ian’s hand pressed up against the glass and smirks. Suddenly a blazing fire appears in Mickey’s eyes and in one swift movement he drives his head forward, savagely head-butting the plexiglass that separates them. The sound is dull and muted, but it breaks through the still silence like a peal of rolling thunder._

_Ian lets out a startled cry and then draws a shaky breath as Mickey steps back and once again locks his fiery gaze on Ian’s face. Warm blood gushes from the cut Terry’s pistol had left earlier on Mickey’s forehead, the ugly gash now open afresh and split even worse than before._

_“Mick, no. We can fix this! Please. We can be together now...” Ian has no idea if his words can even be heard on the other side of the barrier, but he continues to stand there, both hands now raised and framing Mickey’s face through the glass, babbling out apologies. Pleading._

_Mickey steps forward and smiles sardonically. There is no warmth in his eyes. Not an ounce of forgiveness in his gaze. His lip curls back menacingly from his teeth and he actually seems to snarl as he draws back his right fist and brings it forward to smash against the glass. He pauses only briefly to take in Ian’s horrified face and then begins punching the glass repeatedly, ripping open his knuckles and leaving behind blood and bits of scraped off flesh on the spot where his fist lands over and over and over again._

_Ian bangs the flat palms of his hands on the other side of the plexiglass wall and screams for him to stop, the timbre of his voice rising as he becomes increasingly hysterically, but Mickey doesn’t let up. He was going to punch that glass until his hand was nothing but a bloody stump._

_Ian moves his face even closer to the glass, trying to catch Mickey’s gaze one last time, desperate for the chance to explain, to apologize, but Mickey’s eyes are unseeing, his face twisted and contorted by pain and an animalistic rage that is truly terrifying to behold. Ian’s shoulders slump in defeat and he slowly leans forward until his forehead is pressed up against the glass. He closes his eyes and lets the reverberations from Mickey’s hits run through his body. Each smack to the glass is a bolt to his brain and a stab to his heart and it just keeps pounding and pounding and pounding…_

**_Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep_ **

Ian jolted awake and fumbled to slam his hand down on his blaring alarm clock. He fell back down against his mattress and closed his eyes as he waited for his pulse to slow.  He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to get up. He could feel the rut taking over and in that moment he was tempted to let it.

_Mickey_.

His face bloomed behind Ian’s eyes clear as day, not as he had looked in the moments just before Ian had startled awake – angry and twisted, pained and accusatory – but as he remembered him from those days after Ian’s first episode when he’d stubbornly refused to leave Ian’s side. His strong body wrapped snuggly around Ian’s larger frame, his face never more than a few inches from Ian’s own. Anxious but tender. Worried but resolute.

No, he couldn’t just give up, not again. He was still in control just enough to know that if he could push through it – get up now, take his meds, fight the urge to give in to the welcoming abyss – he would probably be okay. It wouldn’t be days in bed or a trip to the ward or a whole new cocktail of anti-depressants. It would just be what it always was these past several years. Routine.

Ian sighed heavily and began to disentangle himself from the blankets that had gotten twisted around his legs as he slept. He swung his feet to the floor and tried to stretch some of the stiffness from his neck. Although he was aggravated at the alarm for waking him after so little sleep, he was grateful that it had jolted him from that dream, and he was more grateful than ever for the standing coffee date he had with Trevor every Sunday morning.

As he grabbed for a pair of jeans off the floor and rummaged around for a clean shirt, Ian couldn’t help but replay the dream in his mind. The contempt in Mickey’s eyes. His rage. His tattooed knuckles hitting the glass over and over again until all Ian could see was red. Every detail had been so painfully vivid, and now those details were intensifying Ian’s guilt and regret. Filling his heart and his gut and his mind until it felt like there was room for nothing else.

But as Ian made his way down the poorly lit stairs of his building and stepped out into the bright morning sun he realized something else too – that the dream had strengthened him in his resolve. If nothing else he was sure of one thing: he truly did want to fix everything.  He was going to make things right with Mickey, he had to.

And luckily there wasn’t any plate of plexiglass holding him back.

2.

The bell above the door jingled as Ian walked into the diner near his apartment on West 47th – a small ma and pa shop that easily looked like it had been around since before the Great Depression. It was one of the few remaining hold outs on the street, nestled between an overpriced children’s clothing boutique and a gaudy, new age astrology store that sold healing crystals and novelty tarot cards and forever reeked of incense. There was a trendy new Coffee Bean down the block that offered free Wi-Fi and every type of flavored coffee known to man, but Ian always insisted that he and Trevor meet here after a night out to nurse their hangovers with plain, black coffee, and to rehash the events of the evening over some greasy bacon and eggs.

He saw Trevor already sitting at their usual table as he made his way up to the counter. After getting less than 4 hours of restless sleep Ian definitely needed the caffeine. He knew it fucked with his meds, but he was desperate.  He waited while the waitress filled him up a cup of coffee, waving off the menu she tried to push into his hands, and then wound his way over to the corner booth where Trevor was scrolling idly through his phone

“Hey man.”

Trevor looked up. “Jesus dude, fun night? You look like shit…no offense.”

“Nah, man. Just couldn’t sleep. Shit going on, ya know,” he said vaguely.

Trevor watched as Ian slid in across from him and proceeded to stare down at the table. Sipping his coffee. Thumbing the napkin in front of him. The awkward silence stretched on and when it became clear that Ian had no intention of elaborating Trevor decided to give him a little push.

He cleared his throat purposefully. “Soooooo…shit with that Jake guy?”

Ian looked up apprehensively. “Nah, it’s nothing. He’s just—”

“I know it’s Mickey,” Trevor whispered conspiratorially, cutting off whatever web of bullshit Ian was getting ready to spin.

Ian choked on the words half-formed in his mouth, his eyes flying wide open. “What the fuck Trev?” Ian hissed, ducking his head down low and looking around the small diner in a state of paranoia. When he was sure there were no eavesdroppers glancing their way he looked back at Trevor expectantly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Trevor looked down at the table, spinning his own coffee cup in his hands, debating internally how much he should tell him.

“I talked to him last night. I guess after you’d already left – thanks for telling me you were taking off by the way!” Trevor looked up from his spinning cup to fix Ian with an accusatory glare. “I was looking for you for over an hour you asshole.” Ian had the good grace to look somewhat apologetic, even though Trevor’s playful smirk told him he wasn’t really that mad. 

“Anyways…” Trevor continued somewhat uncertainly, back to spinning his coffee cup on the table. “…it was sometime after that I was heading back up to the bar and I noticed Mickey– well, Jake…obviously I still didn’t know it was Mickey at that point—”

Ian’s clenching fingers tried to find some purchase on the vinyl table top as he sat hanging on Trevor’s every word. Even just hearing someone mention Mickey’s name was like a fucking drug.

“—He was pretty drunk when I saw him. Seemed like he was drinking to forget. You know me though, I can’t leave shit alone, and I knew it probably had something to do with you—”

“Trev. You didn’t—”

Trevor raised his hands defensively. “Hey, all I did was ask if things were okay with you two! See if he wanted to talk about it.” Ian scoffed at that but Trevor ignored him and pressed on. “It was obvious he was pretty banged up and I just felt bad, thought maybe I could help. But I could tell right away that he wasn’t gonna tell me shit. His defenses were way up. God, the nicknames that guy comes up with…” He was rolling his eyes as he trailed off.

Ian smiled softly and dipped his head. “Yeah, he’s got an endless supply of those.” Fuck he missed Mick.

“But he asked if you were doing ok,” Trevor added gently.

Ian’s eyes shot back up, locking on Trevor’s. “He asked if I was ok? Really?” Something deep in the pit of Ian’s stomach fluttered awake and blood was suddenly pulsing so loudly in his ears he was afraid he wouldn’t hear whatever Trevor said next.

Trevor nodded. “He asked if you were doing ok and that’s when I realized it was him – that it was Mickey.”

Ian’s face filled with confusion. “What do you mean? How could you kn—“

Trevor cut him off  impatiently. “Ian, he still cares about you.  He completely let his guard down when he asked about you. He was genuinely worried and it showed all over his face. In his eyes. That’s how I knew it was him. A whiskey-drinking South Side hardass whose walls completely collapse the second he asks after you? Wasn’t too hard to piece it together, man. When I first approached him at the bar, earlier too when you tried to introduce us, that wall of his was up and it was fucking solid. But I’m telling you – when he asked if you were ok…it was his eyes. His eyes gave him away. They were lighter and hopeful and exactly how they look in that old picture you keep hidden on your phone that you think I don’t know about,” he finished quickly, fixing Ian with a meaningful look.

Ian was silent. He felt the prick of tears as his eyes started to fill. He looked back down at the table and continued fingering his napkin, tearing off little pieces from around the edges.

Trevor watched. “Ian…” he prodded.

Ian sniffed once and in a barely audible tone answered, “You’re wrong.  He made it clear. He wants nothing to do with me. Said we’re done.”

“Ian, listen to me. I’m telling you,” Trevor pulled the remaining shreds of napkin from Ian’s hand to get his full attention, “The look on his face? Nothing is done. He still has feelings for you. Totally mixed up and fucking confused feelings I’d bet, but he still cares. And I think when he realized I could see it on his face, he totally freaked out. Told me to tell you to enjoy your…what the hell did he call them? Oh yeah…your geriatric viagroids,” he said with a smirk.

“Oh come the fuck on Trevor.” Ian closed his eyes and wiped a hand down his face in exasperation. “What did you fucking tell him?”

Trevor laughed. “Nothing that surprised him all that much. Apparently old dudes have been your long time kink? Didn’t seem like it was a big secret.”

“Fucking Christ.” Ian just shook his head, but after a brief pause he looked back up at Trevor and steeled himself to ask the only question that really mattered. “So what the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Trevor furrowed his brow and started off slowly, clearly at a loss. “Well, what can you do, really? I mean, how long is he here for? You have any way to reach him? He’s still on the run, right? Maybe the feds aren’t on his ass the way they were two years ago, but we’re still talking about a fugitive here, Ian.”  He shrugged his shoulders as if to say “end of story” and Ian felt his fists balling in frustration.   

“Trev, I can’t let him go again. I can’t. I need to fix whatever’s left between us and I’m willing to do whatever it fucking takes, okay?”

Trevor looked at Ian sympathetically. “Even if you _could_ fix it, then what? He’ll never be able to stay here with you in Chicago, you know that right? And what could you possibly do? Join him on the run? Drop everything? Your job. Your family. Ride off into the fucking sunset, just the two of you?” He snorted at this last part, shaking his head just to show how ridiculous he thought it all was.  

Ian wasn’t laughing. His face was stone cold and adamant. “If it’s what I need to do, then yeah–” He raised both hands and dropped them to the table dramatically, causing their unused cutlery to rattle “–I’ll fucking ride off into the sunset. I can’t lose him again. I’m sorry Trev, but I made a huge fucking mistake letting him go the last time.  I can’t do it again. I won’t do it again. I won’t–I won’t survive it again.” Ian’s voice cracked at this final statement as his whole body seemed to sag. He slowly relaxed his fists and brought his hands up to cradle his head which suddenly felt much too heavy for his neck to support alone.

“Man, you got it bad,” Trevor said simply, all trace of humor now completely gone from his tone. He brought his coffee cup up to his lips but paused before taking a sip. “Honestly though, if you could have seen Mickey’s face last night when he asked about you…I think you both got it pretty fucking bad.”

3.

Having given him his word not to “do anything stupid”, Ian parted company with Trevor on the sidewalk outside the diner less than an hour later, and still without any clearly formed plan in mind, started walking east down W 47th towards the old neighborhood. After hearing about Trevor’s run in with Mickey (which he had begged and finally convinced Trevor to recount in detail three more times by promising to spring for breakfast every Sunday for the next month) Ian couldn’t help but feel an inkling of hope that maybe there was a small crack in Mickey’s stone cold façade.  A crack that Ian could wiggle his way through, so he could get a chance to apologize, a chance to make things right, a chance to make up for everything, for all the times Mickey had saved him and all the times Ian had let him down. If what Trevor had said was true, that Mickey was worried about him, that he seemed to still care, then maybe there was still hope.

At the same time, as much as he hated to admit it, even just to himself, Trevor’s dire outlook on any possible future he might have with Mickey was not totally unwarranted. Mickey was a fugitive. He’d probably never be safe in the states and he sure as shit couldn’t stay in Chicago. What the fuck was Ian supposed to do? Disappear from Chicago again without a word? Go on the run with Mickey?

Thinking back to their flight to Mexico, he remembered how comfortable, how normal, it had all seemed. How alive he had felt. Why couldn’t they do that forever? Could he leave everything else behind? Would he come to resent Mickey for it? Would it matter as long as they were together?

But even if Ian could make peace with a life on the run, it sounded like Mickey was still involved in some pretty illegal shit down in Mexico. Could he get out and give that up? Go straight? Would he even want to?

The more he mulled it over the more his mind became a spinning top, always finding more questions than answers. Ian grunted in frustration and tried to put a stop to all the thoughts tumbling through his head one after another in rapid succession. All the uncertainty was causing a rising panic in Ian’s chest, and in any case he knew he was getting way ahead of himself. He still needed to track Mickey down in a city of 2.7 million with his only lead being that he was staying in the North Side with a “friend”.  (He resolutely refused to dwell on what _that_ might mean. Nope, he wasn’t thinking about it at all.) And even if by some miracle he _did_ manage to track him down he still needed to convince Mickey to hear him out.  Ian wasn’t sure which task he found more daunting.

As he turned off W 47th to cut north up Halsted he jammed a hand in his pocket and dragged out his cell phone, working up towards his first concrete decision since his vow in the early hours of the morning to do whatever it took to win Mickey back. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the entry he was looking for. Ian took a deep breath and considered.

It had been almost three years since he’d last seen Mandy and nearly two since he’d last talked to her – if you could even call it that. They’d steadily drifted apart after Mandy had left Chicago, each caught up in the drama of their own lives, he supposed. There had been that one brief but dramatic reunion when Ian had helped her cover up the death of one of her john’s, but despite all the promises they had made at the time they had quickly fallen back into their own routines. Just the occasional text – “hey douche” or “miss ya slut” – from time to time.

But after Mickey broke out, after the border, Ian had really made an effort to reconnect. He wasn’t even sure why at the time, though he realized now it was probably partially a need to relieve some of his guilt and a selfish desire to feel closer to Mickey in whatever way he could. But also Ian had just really needed a fucking friend.  After he and Trevor broke up it had taken a while for them to slide back into a comfortable relationship, but with Mandy it had always been as easy as breathing. So in the weeks after returning from the border Ian had started calling her every time he was laid up in bed, unable to sleep, whenever the guilt and regret started making his skin crawl, whenever the constant, dull ache in his chest morphed into an unbearable, stabbing pain – which is to say, a lot. But each and every time the phone would ring and ring until it inevitably went to voicemail, and no matter how many desperate messages Ian left, Mandy never called back...

Until one day, after what must have been close to his 30th unanswered call, the ringing abruptly stopped, but rather than be met with the same old automated message Ian had long since come to memorize, he was met with the most venomous, curse-riddled tongue lashing he had ever received in his twenty years on earth. The Milkovich siblings might have family dysfunction down to a science, but as it turned out they were fiercely loyal to one another when it mattered. Clearly Mandy had heard from Mickey. Clearly she had taken his side. And clearly she had no fucking desire to hear anything Ian had to say. She had hung up before he could even croak out a broken apology and after that he was too ashamed and quite frankly too terrified to try reaching out again.

Ian had slowed almost to a standstill on the sidewalk, his finger still hovering uncertainly above Mandy’s number. He wasn’t even sure her number would be the same. What if she didn’t pick up? What if she just chewed him out all over again?

_Whatever it takes._

He had to hope she might have some answers. Where Mickey was staying maybe. How he could be reached. But mostly he was just desperate for some advice from his former best friend. He needed to talk to someone who knew Mickey, who understood his idiosyncrasies. Who understood, as best as anyone could understand, how Mickey bottled up his emotions and how to possibly extract them. He needed any help he could get.

_Whatever it takes._

Ian let out the breath he had been holding for the last minute and punched the call button, closing his eyes in silent prayer as he brought the phone up to his ear.

_“Hello?”_ Mandy picked up on the first ring. _“Ian? Fuck, is everything ok?”_ Mandy had a feeling this call might come but she didn’t expect it would be on day two of Mickey being back in Chicago. Jesus, these two idiots.

Ian’s eyes flew open in surprise. “Mandy!  Yeah, hi! I uh _—_ well, honestly I didn’t think you’d answer,” he started stammering into the phone immediately. “What’s going on? I mean, how are you? God, I’m so sorry Mandy. I know we haven’t talked in a long time and, well I know you probably still don’t want to hear from me after, well after everything, but I just _—_ I just really needed to talk to you…” Ian trailed off pathetically, cringing at the unnaturally high pitch his voice had suddenly adopted. 

There was a brief pause on the line before Mandy let out a breathy, long-suffering sigh and replied, _“You can shove your apologies for now. I know you probably ran into him. What happened?_

There was a hard edge to her voice, nothing less than Ian had expected, but it was also laced with very real concern – for her brother rather than for him, Ian had to assume. But for some reason this made Ian even more nervous than if Mandy had just started by jumping down his throat like the last time. He wasn’t sure he could keep walking and talking and stopped to sit on a bench overlooking one of the many construction sites that had cropped up around the area.

_“Ian…”_

Ian took a deep breath and attempted to clear the lump in his throat.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m still here. I just…I don’t know what to do. I saw him. Mickey. He’s here.  I saw him at a party last night and shit happened and I just…I just don’t know what to do. I need to fix things. I want to be with him, Mandy.”

_“ What do you mean you want to be with him? What shit happened?”_

“You know. Shit. Like…I may have kinda gone down on him in the men’s room—

_“Jesus Christ Ian! First off, gross. Secondly, what the fuck?? What is wrong with you two? God forbid you should have a normal fucking conversation and talk shit out. Everything is always fistfights or fucking with you two. I swear, the communication skills you guys lack is fucking ridiculous.”_

Ian had to smile despite himself. He missed Mandy’s no bullshit attitude and its familiarity put him slightly more at ease. But that small, reflexive smile was only fleeting. Ian’s face fell as he thought back to what Mickey had shouted at him the night before.

“Well communication was clear this time. He said he was done. God, he was so fucking mad Mandy. I want to fix this though. I want to be with him. I realize I should have known this before I left him alone —Christ, just thinking about it makes me sick.” Ian momentarily faltered, bringing a hand up to sweep roughly through his hair. He tried to take a calming breath and continued. “But I swear, Mandy, I didn’t mean to hurt him. I was just scared. I was too scared to go then but I should have. I should have gone with him when I had the chance. Fuck Mands, I want to be with him. I want him back.”

Mandy didn’t say anything right away and Ian’s heart pounded painfully against his rib cage as he waited for her to break her silence. Finally she let out another tired sigh and Ian could practically feel the weariness he heard in her voice.

_“Ian, I don’t know if he wants that anymore. You fucking hurt him real bad. You and me both know he wouldn’t show it—show how bad he was— but he was, Ian. I didn’t need him to say it flat out, but he was a fucking wreck when you left him. But when I hear from him now, I dunno, it seems like he’s finally turned shit around. He seems happier. More confident. And for the most part he seems to be over you.”_

“For the most part?”

Mandy could hear the desperate hope in Ian’s voice and internally cringed at her mistake.

_“Well, yeah. For the most part. Sometimes he slips up. Sometimes he’ll ask about you. But I mean, you were it for him. You were the only person I’m pretty sure he ever loved. Sure, he cares about me and Iggy – fuck, even Colin probably. But we’re family. We were forced together, we survived that fucking house together. It’s different. He_ chose _you, Ian. You were everything to him and then you were nothing.”_

It was several seconds before Ian could trust himself to speak around the sob that was forming in his throat.

“I know,” he finally mumbled. It was all he could manage.

_“Ian...I don’t know what you want from him. I don’t know what you want from me. But I do know that I can’t see that happen to him again – getting his heart smashed. He doesn’t fucking deserve it. No one does. And you Gallaghers, you really know how to fucking smash a heart.”_

Ian didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse than he already did, but his guilt redoubled when he thought of everything that had gone down between Mandy and Lip all those years ago. He should have done more. He should have tried harder to stay in touch with Mandy after she left town.  He shouldn’t only be calling her when he needed something. Fuck, he was such an asshole. He knew now wasn’t the time to try to apologize – Mandy had already said as much – but he would. He would make it up to her somehow too.

“I know,” he said again, sounding all but beaten. “All I need is a way to reach him. Please, Mandy. I’m begging you here. I need to talk to him. I need to try and make things right. I know I don’t deserve a damn thing from him, but I just need to talk to him. Mandy, I can’t let it lie the way it ended last night. I just can’t.”

_“Seriously Ian. What the fuck?”_ At any other time Mandy’s exasperation would have been comical. Ian could practically hear her eyes rolling over the line. _“How ‘bout you guys just try being fucking friends for a change? Being normal fucking friends who don’t feel the need to immediately rub their fucking dicks together every time they see each other. Jesus!”_ she barked, pausing again briefly to collect herself before continuing.

_“Ian, he’s there for two fucking weeks and that’s it. Just give him his fucking space. And if you seriously can’t do that, at least maybe back the fuck off with the intensity. Don’t push him. Let him take the time he needs, and if its forever, well then, so be it.”_

“Mandy, I’m not—”

_“No Ian, I’m fucking serious,”_ she snapped, her voice quickly becoming icy and dangerous. _“I can’t see him go through it again. Everything he’s ever done has been for you. He came out for you even though it could have killed him. He stuck around when you got sick. He tried to take care of Sammie for you when everyone else was doing shit about it. He went to jail for you_ — _Jesus, he fucking broke out of jail for you! If you fucking want him back, and it’s for real, I hope you have a real fucking stellar plan, because you have a lot to make up for asshole.”_

“Mandy—”

_“Don’t. Don’t fucking hurt him again Ian.”_

**_Click_ **

She abruptly hung up and Ian was left staring dumbly at his phone, overwhelmed again by his guilt and his self-pity and a sadness that threatened to crush him. Everything was different. Nothing was the same. His best friend was done with him, just like her brother wanted to be done with him. The Milkoviches were done with Ian Gallagher and he couldn’t even blame them for it.

He looked around him in a daze – not sure what to do next, or who to turn to, or where to go – but was quickly snapped out of it by a buzzing in his hand. He looked down to see he was still gripping his cell phone tightly. His pulse quickened when he realized he had received a text from Mandy. With trembling fingers he unlocked his phone and read the short message.

It was a 10 digit number followed by three emojis: an eggplant, a peach, and a hand holding up its middle finger.

Ian slowly grinned as he felt a wave of gratitude and relief washed over him. It bubbled up inside him, breaking upon the dam of his anxiety until he couldn’t keep it in any longer and it burst forth from his mouth in loud peals of hysterical laughter.

He took it all back. Some things never change.

 

4.

Ian made his way past Kev and V’s place and quickly approached his old house, hoping to grab some weed he knew would be stashed up in the room he used to share with his brothers so he could go clear his head and try to figure shit out.  “Smoking out the attic” as Lip was always fond of calling it. Now that he had a phone number he really needed to work out what he was going to say when he finally tried to contact Mickey. Like Mandy said, it had better be fucking good.

Ian walked through the gate and was just closing it behind him when Carl came out of the house, looking like he was gearing up for a run. 

“Hey man, what’s up?” Ian said, greeting his younger brother with a smile.

“Ian, hey! Just heading out for a quick run. You wanna join, old man?”

Ian scoffed at the ribbing and leaned his shoulder heavily into his brother as he passed him on the stairs. “Yeah you dick…just let me go change real quick.”

Ian left Carl laughing outside while he hurried into the house and up to his old room. He still left spare clothes and a few toiletries there for those times he hung out with his siblings and didn’t want to make the trip home to his own empty apartment at the end of the night. Sometimes he just craved the company, to be surrounded by the noise and the sibling rivalry and the love. Granted, the only ones still living in the house were Fiona, Liam, and Carl when he was on break from school, but there was still always the constant in and out of everyone else—Debs and Frannie, Lip, Kev and V and the twins. Even Frank when no one could be bothered to keep him out. 

It wasn’t long before Ian was dressed appropriately and outside again stretching his limbs. Carl waited for Ian to finish loosening up and then they started off down the street, easily falling into step with one another and finding their pace naturally. Ian and Carl always spoke few words between them, but it was never an uncomfortable silence. They shared an unspoken sense of understanding, of just letting each other be.

Ian didn’t realize until they were already nearing the end of the block just how much he needed this. Running was always something that helped ground him, especially those times when he could feel the underlying push of a high or low threatening to force its way through the medicated shield that was meant to keep him balanced.  Running made him feel stable, like he was all there. In control. Feet hitting pavement. Measured breathes. Left foot, right foot, slap, slap the pavement. Rhythmic beat of heart and feet. It wasn’t long before Ian was lost in the repetition of the activity.

Carl was keeping at Ian’s pace but Ian had no doubt he was holding back to run alongside his older brother. It made Ian smile to himself.  He couldn’t believe the man Carl was becoming. Once the ever curious kid with sociopathic tendencies who would microwave live gold fish and Debbie’s Barbie dolls just to see what would happen—just to witness pure destruction—now a young man in his final year of military school, planning to follow up school by enlisting in the Marines.  It always surprised Ian that Carl had ended up following a path similar to what Ian had once wanted for himself.  It was a bittersweet sort of feeling.

Ian stole a sidelong glance at his little brother as they turned another corner and started past Ian’s old high school. Carl was becoming a well-rounded, caring kid. He still had his street smarts, but now he also had discipline, and conditioning, and a sense of purpose. And while he still had a penchant for witnessing pure destruction, he was channeling this inclination towards his goal of becoming a sniper in the Marine Corp. Ian couldn’t help but appreciate Carl’s focus and dedication. It was once something he himself had had, striving for Westpoint. Before the army had become little more than an escape hatch for him. Before the mania.

Ian squeezed his eyes shut for the briefest second, refocusing his mind on his breathing and away from thoughts of what might have been. What happened, happened. He couldn’t change the past any more than he could wish away his disorder. He could only move forward.

_The past cannot be changed. The future is yet in my power._

He had seen the saying on a lame motivational poster in the waiting room of one of the several free clinics he had visited over the years – hanging between a picture of kittens fighting over a ball of yarn and a truly horrific advertisement reminding teens of the dangers of STD’s. It was corny and clichéd and a part of Ian wanted to kick his own ass every time he called it to mind – but it did help. He repeated it in his head now like a mantra until he could almost believe it.

_The future is yet in my power._

Before he knew it they were rounding back towards the house and Ian found himself struggling to keep ahead of Carl as they raced down the final stretch of sidewalk. “Dibs on first shower!” Ian choked out, both brothers laughing and completely out of breath as they pushed and jostled one another through the front gate. Carl threw out his fist to jab at Ian’s arm but missed as Ian dodged to the left, laughing from his gut and taking the front steps two at a time. 

He might not say it often, but Ian truly loved his siblings and was grateful to have a special connection with each one of them.  But as he continued into the house and made his way upstairs to strip out of his sweaty clothes his thoughts quickly sobered. Before he could stop it he was thinking back to that night with Mickey in Texas, sitting out under the stars. Mickey had told him that night that he wasn’t leaving anything behind if he went to Mexico, that Ian was the one who had had his back more than anyone in his own family ever had. Ian wasn’t sure if Mickey had really meant it or if he was just trying to convince himself that he would be ok leaving everything else behind, but when he’d said those words Ian knew for certain he wouldn’t be crossing that border with Mickey. He couldn’t. He didn’t tell Mickey then, all the things he so desperately wanted to say sat heavy in the back of his throat like a lead anchor, but the fear of leaving behind his own family had filled him to the core. 

But what was different now? Would Ian be able to leave his family now if it came to that? Because it would. It would come down to him having to leave his family for good to go on the run with Mickey.  If Mickey were to take him back, would he be able to let them go? And there it was again, that anxious feeling tying Ian’s stomach in knots just thinking about it.

Ian pulled back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub, letting the warm water cascade down over his body.  As he stood there, trying to will the tension out of his shoulders and the anxiety out of his stomach, he ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back and off his forehead. He tried to focus his mind on something else and his thoughts roamed to the previous night, to what happened with Mickey.

Mickey’s hands gripping Ian’s hair as Ian took Mickey’s cock into his mouth. Looking up from his position on his knees and seeing Mickey looking down at him, watching his every move, eyes hooded and filled with lust. The way Mickey ran his tongue along his bottom lip before pulling it into his mouth with his teeth.

Ian grabbed for the soap, his own dick growing hard at the memory, and started lathering all over his body, his skin sensitive to his own touch. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Mickey rubbing his hands all over him, how he used to. Ian’s breath hitched as he ran his hands down over his chest and abs and down further to pull at his hard-on. He thumbed at his slit before grasping his cock needily by the head and pulled his fist down to the base. He thrust his enclosed fist up and down, jerking himself off roughly. He leaned forward, placing his free hand on the cool tile in front of him at eye level to give himself more support as he went on tugging, letting the water from the shower spray over his bowed head and down his back.

He pictured Mickey leaning up to kiss him, staring into his eyes, breathing into his neck.  He remembered slipping his hands up under Mickey’s shirt and feeling his toned abs, the soft pudge of Mickey’s stomach that Ian once worshipped all but gone, though he found there was still a little bit of give in the flesh of Mickey’s hips which he grabbed with greedy fingers.

Ian thought about how when he unzipped Mickey’s pants and pulled him out and started to lick and suck and nip around Mickey’s groin his taste on Ian’s tongue had been the same as before. But most intoxicating of all, he still smelled the same—the smell that was inherently Mickey. A hint of cigarettes and sweat, some sort of musky spice and sex. The heady scent of lingering sulfur from a just lit match or the cloud of gunpowder backfire from a just shot gun.

Ian remembered grabbing handfuls of Mickey’s ass, squeezing, pulling him forward and taking as much of Mickey’s cock into his mouth as he could. Ian nuzzled his nose into Mickey, into the hair and soft skin below his stomach, and breathed him in, licking and sucking and filling his mouth with Mickey’s taste.  Trying to show Mickey that there was only him. He just wanted him. No one else.  Mickey, head tilting back, had tangled his fingers in Ian’s hair and thrust desperately into his mouth. 

Ian gripped and pulled at his own cock from base to tip, faster and faster, thrusting into his hand like Mickey had thrust into his mouth. He thought of the way Mickey’s whole body had tensed as Ian brought him to the edge, his cock seeming to grow impossibly larger on Ian’s tongue in the seconds before his orgasm ripped through him. Then Mickey was coming in his mouth, and the memory was enough to send Ian over the edge, his own cum spilling over his hand and onto the shower wall.

Ian leaned forward to rest his forehead on the cool tile, panting heavily but trying to catch his breath and regain his composure, allowing the water to rinse away the thoughts of Mickey he had left on the shower wall.  When he had gotten himself together he squeezed more soap into the palm of his hand and quickly washed a second time, hoping there would still be enough warm water left for Carl when he was done.

He stepped from the shower a few minutes later and wrapped a towel around his waist, noticing that his body now felt considerably more relaxed, though he knew the feeling wouldn’t last long. He opened the bathroom door and made his way to his old bedroom in front of a billowing cloud of steam, opening the top drawer of the dresser he once shared with Lip to find what he originally came for.

Carl was lying perched on his elbow in the lofted bed he’d inherited when Lip had gone off to college, watching on as Ian rummaged around through boxer shorts and mismatched socks, looking for Lip’s stash.  Whenever Lip was back on the wagon he stored his pot in the old bedroom, allowing his brothers to take as they pleased, knowing Carl could use one of his old contacts to replenish the stash if needed.

He looked on with a sense of worry as Ian brought the weed over to the bed to start breaking it up to roll. Carl knew that these days his older brother only dipped into the stash when he was feeling on edge. He knew Ian would take a few joints and go off somewhere to be alone and get his head back on straight. It hurt Carl that he couldn’t do more to help him, but it did make him feel better knowing that his brother had such a handle on understanding his own mind and body. That he knew enough to take a step back and do what he needed to do to ground himself again.

As though reading his thoughts, Ian looked up from what he was doing and caught the look of concern on Carl’s face.

“I’m fine. You don’t have to worry man. I promise.”

Carl nodded slowly, as if calculating in his head exactly what he wanted to say, without saying too much.

“Dude...you’d tell us though, right? If something was up?”

Ian’s mouth turned up into that famous smile of his, the one that failed to meet his eyes, and Carl felt his brow furrow. Ian dropped his gaze back down to his lap and started to pack the rolling paper. “I’m fine Carl. Nothing to worry about. I’d let you know man.”

Carl nodded again and turned on his back to look up at the ceiling. He knew he wouldn’t get much more out of Ian even if he’d wanted to pry, so he was surprised when a little while later Ian cleared his throat and spoke again.

 “Hey Carl. You, uh, still got your hookup if I needed you to unload my meth?”

Carl could tell that Ian had been trying to sound casual, but he noticed the unnatural lilt in his voice that hadn’t been there just minutes before. He rolled back onto his elbow.

“You still have that? Shit. But yeah man, I can totally help you out. When do you need it sold by?”

“Can you do it this week? Week and a half at the latest?”

Carl was watching Ian again with his furrowed brow. “Sure man, I can make that happen.” Carl hopped off the bed to head into the shower, stopping briefly by Ian and sticking out his fist to invite Ian to bump it with his own. “I’ll be able to get you your stacks by probably Friday at the latest.” He hesitated for a second before continuing. “You, uh– needing the money for something in particular? You know I can loan you some too if you need it Ian.”

Ian finished rolling his last joint and looked up with that small smile of his again. “I’m not sure yet, but nah, I’m good—thanks little brother.” Carl gave a final nod and returned a half smile of his own before heading to the bathroom to take his shower.

Ian stood up from his old bed and put the bag of weed back into the sock drawer, hidden securely from the likes of Frank in case he went snooping. He then got dressed quickly in the clothes he came in, pocketed his joints and a lighter he found on top of the dresser, and headed downstairs. Now he just really wanted to get to the dugout and kick back. It’s what he had wanted to do since his alarm had pulled him from that fucking nightmare early that morning.

As he stepped out the front door he nearly tripped over Fiona and V who were camped out on the front steps, sharing a box of cheap wine and cackling like a couple of batty old ladies. Fiona turned to look up at Ian coming out of the house.

“Hey sweetface! Long time no see! Where you off to in such a hurry? Stay and hang with me and V!”

Ian shuffled past Fiona who was sitting on the top step smoking a cigarette while V leaned against the railing, looking a little wobbly on her platform sandals. He reached the walkway and stepped backwards out the gate as he replied, “Yeah sorry, I can’t stay. Gotta head out, but maybe later this week!”

He threw a friendly wave over his shoulder, but as he walked out onto the sidewalk he overheard Fiona whisper to V, the wine clearly not making her realize how far her voice would carry.

 “I hope he’s ok. Not off his meds again or something. He looks kinda off, dontcha think?”

Ian huffed to himself but didn’t wait to hear V’s reply, just continued stalking down the street in the direction of the park. Fiona was always the quickest to think something was wrong, but now that he thought about it, Carl had also seemed concerned. Were people noticing something he couldn’t? Was he manic?

No, he couldn’t be. He was good. His meds had been well balanced for months, he was keeping to his routines with work and exercise and making sure he stayed active. He was just tired. That’s all it was. He was sure of it.

5.

Ian held out the joint, knowingly, and gave Mickey a sad little half smile. Mickey hesitated for a beat but then reached out and took it from Ian’s outstretched hand, moving to lean back against the fence as if it were any other normal day where the two of them would be sitting in the dugout smoking a bone and shooting the shit. With one hand in his pocket, Mickey brought the joint to his lips and inhaled the smoke deep, soaking in the oddly comfortable silence and taking in the sight of Gallagher sitting across from him, leaning easily against the dugout wall with a lazy haze over his eyes.

Something about that place, about the present company, finally gave Mickey his first semblance of being home.

After a short while Ian cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So what are you doing here? Little dangerous to be in the South Side don’t you think?”

Mickey thumbed his lip and took another hit. Ian noticed the familiar tick and couldn’t help but wonder why Mickey might be nervous. Was it just being back in the old neighborhood, or was it something else?  Did he dare to hope that Mickey regretted how things were left last night?

Mickey broke through Ian’s thoughts before he could consider it any further. “Eh, whatever man,” he said, shrugging as he exhaled an impressive puff of thick smoke. “I’ve been walking around the old stomping grounds all day. Everything’s different. Even my house is a fucking pile of rubble. Barely recognized anything but your old place and this fucking dugout. I figure, who’s gonna still be around to recognize me?”

Mickey leaned forward to hand the joint over to Ian, their fingers touching just briefly during the exchange. Mickey quickly slumped back against the fence again and stuffed both hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “So what the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, his tone more gruff than before.

Ian didn’t hesitate to answer honestly. “I still come here a lot. Come here to think. To make sure I’m still me whenever I feel like I am fighting a high high or low low. Like, even though I’m on the meds, I can still feel it sometimes—the high or the low trying to push through. So I usually hit up Lip’s old stash of the good shit and come here and smoke and try to clear my head. It helps.” He paused to take a small drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before blowing it out and nodding with his head to the field at Mickey’s back. “But obviously I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to come here with them tearing everything to shit. Gonna have to find someplace else to go. Someplace where I can make sure I’m really me.”

Mickey looked at Ian as Ian dropped his head to look down at the ground, probably losing himself in thought over what he’d just said. It was really the first time Ian had ever willingly opened up about the effects of his illness with Mickey. Clearly a lot had changed since Ian had looked at him with those green eyes filled to the brim, insisting that he wasn’t broken. Claiming that he couldn’t be fixed. Scoffing at Mickey’s declaration of love and letting it roll right over him.

He was different now. He was more in control. More comfortable in his own skin. More understanding of himself.

Mickey had already noticed a change in him two years ago during their ride to Mexico, but not like this. Mickey hadn’t pinpointed it at the time, but looking back on it now he could see that Ian was still holding back from him then. Perhaps because he was unsure if the impulsivity of getting in that car with Mickey was his own decision or possible mania. Perhaps because he knew all along he was never really going to cross that border. Whatever it was it hardly mattered anymore. But looking at him now, Mickey couldn’t help but feel proud of Ian for getting his shit together, for having this sort of understanding and control over himself.

When Ian finally raised his gaze from the ground to take another hit he saw that Mickey was still staring at him. Their eyes met and Ian was sure he caught a glimpse of that look Trevor had been talking about before Mickey blinked and quickly looked away. That look where Mickey’s guard was pulled down. Where that impenetrable stone wall was showing signs of a crack. For Ian, it was the look of hope.

“So…how’d you know I would be at that party?”

Mickey pushed off the fence and stood up straight. “How’d I—? Jesus Gallagher, not every fucking thing is about you!” he exploded. “I told you I’m here working and most of my clients now are a bunch of fancy fucks,” he explained more calmly. “But what the fuck’s up with you being at that party, hmm? Youleave my trashy ass and go all North Side or what?” Mickey asked, taking a hand out of his pocket and holding it out for the joint.

Ian reached out and let his hand linger against Mickey’s for a second longer than he needed to before settling back on the bench. He was surprised at how comfortable he felt, how at home he felt even with Mickey getting all fired up at him.

“Nah, it’s not like that. Still South Side. Still living here. Have my own place though. Trevor’s the one who knows the North Siders but mostly he’s just a club kid—real into the scene. So I tag along.”

“Club kid, huh? Figures. Seemed like a real pussy to me.” Mickey bit his lip and raised a knowing eyebrow at Ian before taking another hit.

“Cut the shit Mick. I know you know he’s trans. I talked to him this morning.”

Mickey exhaled and fixed piercing eyes directly on Ian’s. “So you already know he knows it’s me. Curly Sue gonna fucking snitch?”

Ian couldn’t help but smile as he reached back out for the last of the pot, wanting to finish what was left. “Curly Sue?” he laughed, before cashing the joint and flicking the butt through the fence by Mickey’s shoulder. _Some things truly never change_. “Nah, he’s cool...and he’s my friend. He knows how much you mean to me…” Ian’s voice trailed off.

Mickey looked at Ian, trying to decipher what exactly was going on in that brain of his, willing himself not to fall back into what they always seemed to fall back into. Strong feelings. Continuing want. Indescribable need.

He quickly pulled his pack of smokes from the pocket of his jeans, purposely trying to veer his mind away from every fucking emotion he was trying so hard not to feel.  He turned his back to Ian and brought a cigarette up to his lips, looking out at the field as he lit up—or what was fucking left of the field. After exhaling the nicotine that helped calm his nerves, he let his eyes wander to where first base would have been. Where he once pissed in the middle of his little league game without any clue at the time of who it was that was playing second. Christ, he was such a fucking punk when he was a kid. Mickey drew in a deep breath. _Not a fucking punk anymore._

“He told me about your mom. Dying. While you were with me.”

“Nah, it was on my way home. Lip texted me. She had an aneurysm. Pretty sudden. Nothing anyone could’ve done.” Ian shuffled his feet while looking at the ground.

“Well whatever man, I guess it’s a good thing you went home then. Still fucking sucks. I’m sorry Gallagher. He said you had a really tough time after—”

“Mick—”

Mickey turned suddenly to face him. To look him in his green eyes. “Are you better now?  Are you doing ok? You know…with your mom being—”

“Mick,” Ian said again, standing up and reaching out to grab his arm. “I had a hard time because I left you.”

Mickey shook out of his grip and took a step back. “Left me?” he scoffed. “Now that’s a fucking understatement.  Ian, you fucking broke me—”

Ian’s breath caught as if Mickey had hit him in the gut. He felt his eyes starting to fill.

“—You gave me your fucking guilt money and told me to fuck off! Speaking of which…”  Mickey reached into his back pocket and removed the envelope which he flipped to Ian.

“Mick, what the fuck?”

“It’s all there. Every dime you gave me. You can count it if you want.”

Mickey threw his cigarette butt to the ground and leaned back against the fence. Ian rubbed angrily at his eyes and held out the envelope, trying to push it back to him.

“Fuck you Mickey. This money is yours. It wasn’t a fucking loan and it wasn’t any sort of fucking guilt money.”

Mickey’s eyebrows rose in obvious disbelief. “Yeah well, whatever you say. Either way, I don’t fucking want it. I don’t owe you shit now.”

When Ian realized Mickey was not moving to take back the money he felt momentary defeat wash over him and decided to sit back down, leaving the envelope of cash lying next to him on the bench for the time being. He then sat there, looking down at the ground once again, unsure how to say all that he wanted to.

Before he was able to come up with anything groundbreaking, Mickey strolled over to the entrance of the dugout and jumped up, catching the crossbar in his hands and hanging there suspended for a few seconds before pulling himself up over and over again.  Every time he and Ian had gone to the dugout in the past there had always been a pissing contest over who could do more chin-ups, or who could do them better. Almost every time without exception Ian had won – the asshole – but now Mickey was in better shape than ever and feeling confident.

Ian couldn’t help but stare as Mickey showed off a little bit, an overwhelming sense of nostalgia filling him to his core. Remembering what Mandy said about not pushing the intensity, about not pushing him, Ian decided on a different tactic. He got up and walked over to Mickey and leaned on the fence by the entryway.

“Look at you tough guy. Finally able to keep up with the big boys, huh? Let me try.”

Mickey hung from the bar eyeing Ian up and down, internally having a battle of wills about whether or not to give into the familiar child’s play. But god, he missed this. Eventually he scoffed and dropped to the ground.

“Alright princess, let’s fucking see what you got.” He switched places with Ian and crossed his arms, settling in to watch.

_Motherfucker_.   Even with Mickey being in the best shape of his life Ian was still able to annihilate him in their little chin-up contest.  Mickey shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the strip of skin poking out from the bottom of Ian’s shirt, and sat down on the dugout bench, splaying out his legs and leaning back.

“Jesus man, you still fucking got it. Good for you Red,” Mickey laughed, watching through his lashes as Ian let go of the crossbar and sauntered over, not missing the hint of a smug grin on his face. “Hey, you got any more of that weed? Definitely Lip’s primo shit. Haven’t forgotten the taste of that.” _Among other things._  

Mickey couldn’t help thinking it for the briefest of moments but reined it in real quick. He was definitely blaming the weed for that fleeting thought. And this place. And the stupid fucking chin-up contest. But really, he couldn’t believe how easy it was to fall into the comforts of talking with Ian. Of being with Ian. Hell, there wasn’t any reason why they couldn’t hang out for the short time he was in town, right? Not like banging or whatever, but just hanging out. It would be nice to have little piece of home around, because as far as Mickey was concerned, it was nowhere else to be found.

Ian sidled up next to Mickey on the bench, taking another joint out of his pocket and handing it to Mickey to light.

“Sweet man. Not gonna lie, I miss this.” Mickey lit the end of the joint, blowing on the flame to let it burn a bit before bringing it up to his lips. Ian was staring at him with his green puppy dog eyes, feeling like a fucking kid again. Like he did that time Mickey got out of juvie and told him he missed him as they sat together under the high school bleachers.

Mickey glanced over as he exhaled his recent hit before elaborating. “As good as the weed is down in Mexico, I still miss the South Side shit we were born and raised on, ya know?” He handed the joint over to Ian, who looked suddenly crestfallen, his searching eyes losing the luster they just had. Mickey noticed and looked forward, clearing his throat.

“And, uh, you know. Miss hanging out too. Kicking back. Just shooting the shit.” He looked back at Ian to find that his mouth had started to break into that stupid Ian fucking Gallagher grin that took over his whole entire face.  And it could have just been the weed again, but it was one of the prettiest fucking things Mickey had seen in a long time.

“Alright you fucking joker, give me that.” Mickey reached out and snatched the joint from Ian’s hand and returned the smile with a shake of his head, the deep laugh lines around his eyes starting to crease just all little. He sat back against the wall and took a long slow hit. Yeah, he could deal with this…just bumming around with Gallagher for the next couple of weeks before he had to head back. Why the fuck not?

“So, um...I got this thing tonight. It’s another party on the North Side. I have to go woo some more fucking rich dicks for a couple hours. You want to come with? Hang out? I mean, I’m only here for a few weeks, but there’s no reason we can’t just hang without fucking around, right? We’re two grown fucking men, I think we can handle it.” Mickey was trying to sound casual but Ian caught the small waver in his voice.

_Keep chipping, Ian_. _Keep chipping at that crack in his wall._

Ian’s heart was beating a mile a minute as he fixed Mickey with another blistering smile, but he did his best to keep his voice steady as he took back the joint from Mickey’s waiting hand.

“Yeah man. I think we can totally handle that.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Mickey's life in Mexico and why he had to come back to Chicago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is filler, but important to where this story is going.  
> See notes at the end of the chapter for Spanish to English translation.   
> Please note, I do not know Spanish. Any dialogue that is incorrect, my apologies.
> 
> Thank you per usual to my partner in crime @ms.gallavich (IG) for her editing genius.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

**_[One month earlier]_ **

Mickey sat next to Damon on the veranda of Martinez’s sprawling estate with a cigarette and beer in hand, looking out over the grounds and waiting for his boss to arrive for the meeting he had called earlier that day. It wasn’t unusual for Mickey to get called to his boss’s primary residence – an enormous colonial style mansion tucked away at the end of a long, gated drive in the ultra-rich Polanco district of Mexico City – but it was unusual that the rest of the guys Mickey usually worked closely with didn’t seem to have been invited. Mickey took a long pull from his cigarette and tried not to let it worry him. Damon was here after all, so that was something.

The two were sitting at a patio set that probably cost more than all the contents of Mickey’s old house in the South Side. Hell, probably more than all the shitty furniture from all the shitty houses on his old shitty block. The elevated veranda looked out over an enormous infinity pool and an expansive courtyard scattered with several comfortable cabanas. Mickey’s groin twitched imperceptibly beneath the table as his eyes flickered to the cabana nestled at the furthest edge of the courtyard on the far side of the pool. His boss had been hosting a party for the _Las Águilas_ a few weeks back when a nameless blonde had sucked him off, the cabana’s semi-sheer curtains and the cover of darkness the only things hiding them from the rest of the fucked up party-goers.  Mickey took a swig of beer and looked away.  Now, the courtyard was filled with several bikini-clad women lounging on deck chairs or dipping their toes in the water, all talking and laughing loudly. Mickey had no clue who they were or where they came from, but he’d come to realize quite quickly after joining Martinez’s crew that the big boss liked to surround himself with beautiful things, and wherever he went such women – and just as often such men – were bound to be close by.

“ _Mamacita_ …” Damon mumbled under his breath and not for the first time. He was lounging low in his chair to Mickey’s left, legs spread wide and knees slightly bouncing, pulling lazy puffs from his cigarillo and salaciously eyeing the girls in their tiny bikinis. “Eh _gringo_ , you sure you don’t want to double team that _chica caliente_ down there?” he asked, pointing with his cigar. “She may not be packing, but I bet she still sucks your little white dick real nice, eh?” he laughed.

“Fuck off,” Mickey shot back without even looking. He was distracted by movement at the side gate. Martinez had finally arrived, flanked by two of his biggest bodyguards who immediately turned and disappeared into a small building just inside the high, wrought-iron gate flanked by the high stone wall that surrounded the property. Following behind Martinez were two more of his heavy hitters, dragging between them a limp and severely battered body.

“Shit.” A small knot quickly formed in the pit of Mickey’s stomach as he hastily stubbed out his cigarette and straightened up, kicking Damon’s leg to get him to do the same. Damon was a typical ‘yes man’, happy to do what was asked of him without question, no matter how violent or bloody, but he was a fucking idiot when it came to just about everything else, including knowing when to show some measure of respect. Mickey was just waiting for the day Damon finally said or did the wrong thing to the wrong person and got taken out. He spared a quick glance at the man who after all this time had become something resembling somewhat of a friend. Mickey hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but even more so he hoped he wouldn’t get caught up in the cross fire. _Self-preservation_. Something Mickey had been practicing for as long as he could remember. ~~~~

Mickey tracked Martinez’s movements as he strode purposefully across the courtyard. The older man – probably in his late 40s or early 50s if Mickey ever had to guess – wore a perfectly tailored, white linen suit over his thin frame. The fedora covering his dark hair, just starting to go grey at the temples, was perfectly matched with the tan pocket square of his jacket, and he wore dark aviators and a heavy gold watch. In this neighborhood he would look perfectly unassuming if it weren’t for the man being dragged along behind him and the smear of blood being left on the stone walkway in his wake.

As they approached the pool Martinez slowed, waving his hand and yelling something in clipped Spanish, causing the girls to scurry to collect their belongings and scamper towards the gate. The grounds cleared quickly and the knot in Mickey’s stomach tightened, making him squirm just a little in his seat. ~~~~

The two men who had veered off earlier reappeared from inside the small shed with a tarp and a small folding chair in hand. The shorter of the two – Miguel, maybe? or was it Manuel? – now also carried a conspicuous silver briefcase.  They fell back in step with Martinez, who led the little entourage up the few steps to the veranda where his men then worked quickly and with practiced ease.  They rolled out the tarp and dragged over a small table on which they displayed the contents of the briefcase – an array of sharp, highly polished metal tools whose purpose was immediately obvious.

The two men who had been dragging along the limp body dropped it onto the folding chair and handcuffed the unconscious man’s hands behind his back, leaving him slumped over his own lap for the time being. Even from this close Mickey couldn’t tell if he knew the man or not. His rumpled suit looked expensive, but his bloodied face was so swollen it was hard to make out any distinguishing features. As Mickey started to stand from his chair, he noticed idly that the beaten man was missing a shoe.

Martinez was smiling warmly as he approached the table where Mickey and Damon had been waiting, arms spread wide in greeting, leaving the men he had arrived with to stand as silent sentries around the veranda.

“My pretty boy! How are you this very fine day? Please, please – sit down and join me! Relax. Drink your _cervasa_.” Martinez searched Mickey’s face fondly, sparing not so much as a glance in Damon’s direction. “How are things?”

Mickey cleared his throat as he sat back down and took a small sip of the beer he no longer wanted. He kept his eyes averted away from the man bleeding out all over the tarp behind Martinez and did his best to rein in the sense of dread settling in his gut. He lowered the bottle from his lips and smiled.

 “Things are good, boss. Real good. Was able to close on the accounts for Dretchen’s crew. They had to move about $200K so I set them up real nice so we could get started on laundering it and moving it off-shore. Dretchen’s man thinks it’ll be a regular thing. Hoping to bring in around $200K every month, and they’re down for the 40% cut. That’ll start rolling in next week.”

“Ahhhhh, my pretty boy. So good for me!” Martinez leaned forward in his chair, reaching out and patting Mickey’s hand that was resting on the table by his cigarette pack. “I knew you would be good the second I laid eyes on you. Just needed to wear down those rough edges of yours, eh? Turn that aggression into something better.” He released Mickey’s hand but continued to regard him with affection. “Like I always say, when you know you are the best, you can do anything. Have anything. Take anything you want. It’s yours, _sí_?” Mickey’s smile faltered just a little, but Martinez didn’t seem to notice.

“So boss, who’s the poor _pendejo?_ ” Damon asked, butting in with a nod of his head in the direction of the mystery man before slouching back in his chair with an amused grin.

 “Aye!” Martinez turned to acknowledge Damon’s presence for the first time, his tone becoming suddenly sharp and stern and his face hardening with annoyance. “You sit up when addressing me and you don’t ask about things that have nothing to do with you! _Pinche idiota._ ”

Damon quickly straightened in his seat and wiped the smile from his face, closing his mouth and looking down at the ground like a small child who had just been scolded by his father and put on a timeout.  Mickey took another swig of his beer even though it was already churning unpleasantly around the knot in his stomach. Placing the bottle down, he folded his hands in front of him to keep himself from nervously grabbing and bouncing the cigarette pack on the table and kept his eyes focused on Martinez, waiting for him to tell him why he was there.

“Actually, speaking of things that have nothing to do with you, my business with Mikhailo is none of your concern either. Leave.”

Damon’s eyes shot up, “But boss—”

“ _Vete!”_ Martinez slammed his fist down on the table, eyes suddenly blazing.

Damon got up quickly and with a drawn out sigh made his way off the veranda, opting to sit in one of the cushioned deck chairs on the far side of the pool where Martinez’s girls had just been sunbathing minutes before. He threw himself down heavily, swinging his legs up to lounge back, and sat with arms crossed and mouth pouting. _Just like a fucking kid_ , Mickey thought to himself.

When Martinez spoke again his eyes were still firmly fixed on Damon, a deep scowl contorting the features of his face. “Why you choose to keep hanging around that one I will never understand. You are better than that, Mikhailo. You are meant for better things. You are smarter. Damon—he has his uses,” he continued, with a vague wave of his hand in the direction of the bloodied man still passed out in the chair, “but he is fucking _estupido_. He will be his own downfall.” He sucked his teeth once in annoyance before turning back to face Mickey. “You don’t let him drag you down with him,” he finished seriously, waiting for Mickey to give some sort of indication that he had been heard.  Mickey said nothing but nodded his head in understanding. ~~~~

At that Martinez suddenly clapped his hands together and his face broke into a warm smile once again. “Now— where were we, my Mikhailo, hmm?” His eyes searching Mickey’s face somewhat wildly. “Ah, yes! I called you here to talk about a new job I need you to manage. One I need you to manage on your own.”

Mickey thumbed his lip and looked out at Damon briefly before turning back to Martinez.

“You’ve heard of Charles Winters, _sí_?”

“Yeah…” Mickey started, searching his memory. “That the new bigwig from up north?” Martinez nodded, face unreadable. Mickey rambled on, perhaps due to nerves, reaching for any sort of ease in the tension he was personally feeling. “Pretty sure he only started out around the same time I joined your crew but he’s looking to be a major player. Made his way up through the east coast underground real fucking fast.” Mickey quickly tried to assess Martinez’s mood before cocking an eyebrow and letting his lip curl into a teasing smirk, “What’s the matter boss? You worried he’s gonna bump you off your golden throne?”

“ _Traviesillo_! You little shit!” Martinez barked with laugher, as Mickey hoped he would. “Let’s not give him too much credit now, eh? But you’re right, you’re right – he’s getting ready to join the ranks of the big boys. Looking to partner up. He has control of a very large part of the arms and drug market up north which I’d like to dip my hands into, and he wants to expand down south and start setting up some off-shore accounts. I need someone to check out his operations. Start discussing plans. Get a measure of the man and strike a deal. Charles requested someone who was English speaking and who was familiar with dealings in the North. Someone who knows how things work up there, sí?” he said, now fixing Mickey with a serious look. “You, Mikhailo. I want you to do it.”

It did not escape Mickey how big this job was, and the added pressure was mixing with the already churning feeling in his gut. He tried to hide the mounting tension with a laugh. “Speaking English, I think I got that covered, but I’m not sure how much help I’ll be with dealings in the North. Don’t know much. Never worked too far outside Chicago before…”

“Which is exactly where I’m sending you, my pretty boy. Winters recently made the move from New York. Trying to carve out a stronghold for himself in Chicago now that the feds have rounded up Roselli and his _dagos_ – ”

Mickey’s face dropped and it did not go unnoticed by Martinez, who narrowed his eyes and looked at Mickey questioningly. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing boss, it– it’s nothing…” But Mickey felt himself starting to buckle under Martinez’s unyielding gaze. “It’s just…well, do you think that’s really a good idea? I mean, I’m a fucking convict and it’s only been a couple years. And to actually go back to my home town…seems like a risk…”

Mickey saw something dangerous flash across the older man’s face and tried to steel himself for whatever might come next. “Mikhailo. _Estupido_ is sitting over by the pool,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward Damon before turning a savage finger on Mickey. “Do _not_ talk to me like I am him. Like some fucking _pandillero_. What do you take me for, eh?” he nearly shouted, before dropping his accusing finger and continuing somewhat more calmly. “I have spoken with Winters. He has many connections up there, including within the various divisions of your American law enforcement. From what I hear even _los malditos federales_ ,” he added, turning to spit down on the ground with contempt.

When he looked back up there was still a trace of wildfire in his eyes, but his features softened the longer he searched Mickey’s face. “He has assured me, my Mikhailo, that you will be safe. And of course, we will not be so obvious. A clean ID, something different with your hair – blonde maybe, sí? But otherwise, how could they know it was you? You have come a long way from the thug _estupido_ first introduced me to. My pretty boy cleans up very nice. You even got those _de mierda_ tattoos covered on your beautiful hands. Your hands are much too beautiful to have such _mierda_ on them.”

Martinez reached over, taking one of Mickey’s hands in both of his own, feathering his fingers lightly over the knuckles where F-U-C-K was once written. Martinez considered Mickey’s new tattoos as if in a trance, gently tracing the outline of each skull, as if they themselves were sacred.

Mickey didn’t pull away. He had gotten used to the odd sort of affection Martinez had come to show him since taking him in. At first Mickey had been extremely non-receptive, which only seemed to make Martinez single him out even more, but eventually Mickey’s resistance softened and he came to accept the pet names, lingering touches and warm smiles. Mickey had come to tolerate the affections as time went on, due to an increase in trust, yes, but also out of fear. _Self-preservation_.

Mickey was not one to admit it aloud, but there was something about Martinez that scared the shit out of him. More than once Mickey had imagined up scenarios in his head that found Terry and Martinez pitted against one another in the same room, with Mickey having to choose which of the two would leave alive. Mickey was extremely uncomfortable with the fact that he did not have an answer to that question and he was terrified to find out.  Whereas Terry’s every word, his every action, every breath, was laced with his hate and his cruelty, always out there in the open, Martinez’s temperament was of a different sort. Mercurial. That’s the word some fancy college prick would probably use. He was unpredictable, and often dangerously so.  He laughed easily, and showed affection, and doted on those he was fond of, but there was something dark and sinister always bubbling just beneath the surface, always ready to burst forth and consume anything in its path.

Mickey quietly cleared his throat to bring his boss out of his daze. With a final squeeze Martinez released Mickey’s hand and sat back again in his chair, smiling congenially.

“You will be fine. I have complete faith that you will be able to close this deal for me. You must close this deal. There is no question.”

Mickey finished off the last of his warm beer and held onto the bottle, fingering the label that had already started to peel at the corners from the heat of the sun and the bottle’s condensation. Without lifting his eyes he replied, “Alright, I’ll do it.”  Martinez clapped his hands and laughed loudly. “That’s my boy! My pretty boy! Of course you will.” As if Mickey really had any choice.

He seemed ready to say more, but just then the slumped form in the chair over on the tarp started to stir and cough. Mickey’s eyes were once again drawn to the man’s face, but even awake he was no more recognizable than before. One eye was completely swollen shut and the other was open barely more than a slit. Mickey watched the red bubble at the corners of the man’s mouth as he spit up his own blood.

Martinez turned his head and regarded the battered man coldly before getting up from his chair and slowly making his way over to the tarp. “Come Mikhailo. There is something I want you to see. Something I need you to understand. And call on _estupido_.”

Mickey felt his stomach drop but got up and whistled through his teeth, motioning to Damon to get his ass back over to them. Damon hopped up and quickly jogged around the pool and up the few steps of the veranda to stand at Mickey’s side.

“What’s up _amigo_?” Damon whispered, completely clueless. Mickey turned and tried to silence him with a look. _Shut the fuck up Damon_.

“Damon! _Vente para ac_ _á_. _Rapido_!” Martinez yelled with obvious impatience. Damon hastened to Martinez’s side while Mickey himself inched ever closer, eyes fixed upon the man handcuffed in the chair, moaning around broken teeth and struggling to draw breath. His nose was a wreck, clearly broken in several places and skewed at a most unnatural angle, and from the way his breath rattled on each inhale Mickey was sure he must have a collapsed or perforated lung. Almost every visible inch of his skin was bruised and bloodied. Mickey couldn’t imagine this much damage being caused by a single pair of hands. A bat, maybe. Or the front end of a large truck.

 “Go over to the case and get the pruning shears,” Martinez instructed Damon, before turning his back on him, on Mickey and on the man clinging to life in the chair. He looked out over the pool and clasped his hands behind his back.

Damon’s face broke into an impish grin as he moved over to the table where the silver briefcase had been left open to retrieve the sharp clippers, happy to be doing something he understood. As he lifted them from the case Mickey saw them glint in the sun, as if they were newly polished for whatever this occasion might be. The beer in Mickey’s stomach once again began to boil and churn and he had to swallow down the urge to throw up all over himself.

“Now,” Martinez began, his voice low and dangerous, “when someone doesn’t listen…when someone doesn’t do their job…it makes me upset. And when I get upset? Well, it is not a very good thing for anyone I don’t think. I need people to do their jobs, you understand? To do what is asked of them. To listen. I do not think that is much to ask, do you?”

Mickey didn’t know if Martinez was asking him, the man in the chair, or the world at large, so he kept his mouth clamped firmly shut.

“Damon. Give me his ear.”

The man in the chair fought weakly against the metal cuffs holding his wrists, the desperate sounds coming from his mouth turning feral. Blood continued to dribble from his mouth as he struggled to form words. In the end he managed only two, but it was enough.

“Damon, no...”

Damon crouched down in front of the man, searching his mangled face. “Javier??”

_Oh shit._                                                                                                                                                     

Mickey had to stifle a gasp. He couldn’t believe he’d been looking at Javier all this time, but now as his eyes anxiously swept over the man again he definitely recognized the slope of his brow beneath its many lacerations. He noticed the silver chain around the man’s neck and the familiar cross that had slipped out from underneath his bloodied button-up shirt. The expensive suit he had noticed earlier he now recognized as one of the Armani pieces Javier favored. _Shit._ Javier. Martinez’s right hand man.

Forgetting himself in the moment, Mickey spoke out of turn. “What’d he do?”

Damon was still crouched down in front of Javier, looking suddenly hesitant, the pruning shears hanging uncertainly at his side. Martinez finally turned, but rather than answer Mickey’s question, he glowered down at Damon and hissed, “Give. Me. His. Ear.”

Damon stood, all trace of uncertainty wiped away and a hint of that wicked grin once again playing across his lips. He gripped the crown of Javier’s head with one hand, trying to steady his wild thrashing, and brought the sharp clippers up with the other. He bent slightly to bring his lips right next to Javier’s left ear. “Will be a hell of a lot easier if you don’t struggle, _amigo_ ,” he said in a mock whisper. Then before Mickey could even blink, Damon straightened up and removed Javier’s ear in one scissoring snip.

Javier’s scream was bloodcurdling, but Mickey hardly heard it. His eyes were fixed on the ear, falling past Javier’s shoulder as if in slow motion, tumbling down, down, down to land with hardly a sound on the black, plastic tarp next to Damon’s beige Timberlands.

There was more blood than Mickey would have imagined. More than he remembered seeing the time Martinez had personally cut off some gangbanger’s finger after he’d foolishly flipped him the bird. More than that time Iggy had been forced to cut off the pinky toe of Mr. Georgopoulos when he’d failed to make good on some money he’d borrowed from Terry. The blood coated Javier’s neck and his Armani covered shoulder in pulsing spurts. Some even sprayed out at Damon, though he seemed entirely unaffected by the gore. Mickey watched as he bent to snatch the ear from the ground, grinning at Martinez as he stood back up and held it out with a childish giggle. “ _Hear_ boss,” he laughed, waggling his eyebrows at the pun before handing off the ear and walking over to the table to begin cleaning off the shears.

Javier’s wailing had reached at an ungodly octave, but Martinez just stood there, impassive, unmoved, holding the ear almost reverently, as if just given a piece of holy communion. Finally, he turned to one of his heavies and gave a slight nod. At his signal, Manuel – or was it Miguel? – ambled over to stand behind Javier who quieted at last, as though finally recognizing the moment for what it was.

Martinez had circled around to stand directly in front of his second in command, looking down at his pathetic form, his own face impassive but his eyes ablaze. “Goodbye, my friend. _En las manos de Dios_ ,” he said, before nodding his head a second time.

The man whose name Mickey could not seem to remember placed large hands gently on either side of Javier’s head, almost like he would a lover, and with one swift twist took his life with a sick and deafening crunch. Javier’s head fell to the side and dangled there, as if by a thread. The bile in Mickey’s throat was dangerously close to making an appearance.

Martinez stood there, still holding the ear in his hands as if making an offering to some higher deity. His eyes appeared unfocused, as if he was getting lost in his own mind, getting lost in the offering he was making. He began to speak as if in a trance.

“Javier did not do his job. He tried to double cross me, tried to steal from me. Thought he could branch out on his own and I would not notice. Thought that I could not see. He got greedy. He got sloppy. When he was told by loyal men that he was getting sloppy and getting greedy, he did not listen. If he is not going to listen, why does he need his ear? If he is going to take for granted the life that I give him, why does he deserve that life?”

Martinez finally turned to face Mickey.

Mickey clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides to hide their trembling.

Martinez strolled over to Mickey, holding Javier’s ear gingerly in a cupped hand and smiling softly. He reached up with his free hand and placed it lovingly on the side of Mickey’s face, thumbing his cheek affectionately. “Ahhh, my pretty boy. My Mikhailo.” Mickey could feel Javier’s blood being traced on his skin wherever Martinez touched. Mickey took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, willing the bile in his throat to stay put even as he maintained steady eye contact with Martinez, frightened blue on wild, blazing brown.

“I know you will not fail. I know you are very good for me. I know you will do your job, sí? My pretty boy?” Mickey nodded slowly, the loaded threat hanging stiffly in the air between them but left unsaid.

“Yes boss.”

Martinez chuckled and patted Mickey’s cheek.  “Good boy.”

Without another word, Martinez turned and descended the veranda steps, leaving his men where they were to begin cleaning up the mess he was leaving behind. But Mickey remained rooted in place, watching as Martinez passed by the pool and slowed, side arming the ear he still carried in his hand and laughing loudly as it bounced across the smooth surface of the water like a skipping stone. He then cut a path across the courtyard making his way back to the main house, chuckling to himself as he went.

When Martinez finally disappeared inside, Mickey let out a shuttering breath, his eyes drifting once more to the lifeless corpse Damon was now helping two of the others roll up in the tarp. The body itself didn’t bother him. He’d been around the dead before and he was certain he would be again. The fact that it was someone he knew didn’t even really bother him that much. He’d worked with Javier a lot the past several months and the guy was a total homophobic prick. There had been no love lost between the two of them.  But no, it was more what Javier’s death represented. The stark realization that no one under Martinez’s thumb was safe. Of course he’d always known that. But it was one thing to know it and another thing to really _know_ it, to witness it.

Now Mickey was expected to return home to Chicago where he was a known fugitive? Where a certain redheaded asshole still lived and was probably just waiting to fuck up his life in all sorts of new and inventive ways? Or, what? Risk joining Javier in his final resting place?

“Hey _gringo_ , you gonna fucking come help us with this or what?” Damon groused, breaking through Mickey’s pointless musings.

Mickey swiped absently at the blood left on his cheek and made his way over to where Damon was struggling to keep a shoeless foot wrapped up in the tarp as he and the neck-breaker started to lift Javier’s body from the ground.

Thinking on it any longer wasn’t gonna do any good anyways. Mickey was certain that he was fucked either way.

Just like he’d always been.

Fucked for life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish to English translation:
> 
> Las Águilas- nickname for Mexican football(soccer) team commonly known as Club America  
> Mamacita - sexy Mexican girl   
> Gringo- American who is not of Hispanic or Latino descent  
> Chica caliente- hot girl  
> Si- yes  
> Cervesa - beer  
> Pendejo - asshole  
> Pinche idiota - fucking idiot  
> Vete - go away  
> Estupido- stupid  
> Dagos- racial slur for Italians  
> Pandillero – gangbanger  
> Los malditos federales- the fucking Feds  
> De mierda - shitty  
> Mierda - shit  
> Amigo – friend  
> Vente para aca. Rapido!- Come here. Fast!  
> En las manos de Dios- In God’s hands


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slowest burn ever continues.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @ms.gallavich for being my "beta" half.
> 
> See what I did there?

1.

Mickey was fucking high.

That was the only explanation Ian could come up with as the two of them cut a lazy path through the neighborhood towards Ian’s apartment. That second joint Mickey had smoked mostly on his own had obviously loosened his lips cause he’d been talking almost non-stop since leaving the dugout, content to let Ian lead him through back alleys and construction sites abandoned for the weekend, seemingly unaware of the way Ian kept stealing sidelong glances at him as he chatted away.

He filled Ian in on his life in Mexico – what his work was like, stories about the guys on his crew, his boss’ penchant for the extravagant (“Gallagher, no lie, I was this fucking close to stealing that stupid thing that holds the goddamn toilet paper roll. You know the thing I mean? Who the fuck gets a gold-plated TP holder?! Fucking rich assholes, man…”) – giving Ian a glimpse at just how different his life had been since starting over. And he had. Started over.

Ian stayed mostly quiet, listening intently and basking in the sense of contentment that was settling over him just from hearing Mickey talk so freely. Ian was trying to have them avoid the busy streets as much as possible, but anyone they happened to pass must have thought Ian’s face was going to split in half at any moment from how wide he was smiling. It wasn’t until they were nearing Ian’s block, Mickey in the middle of some asinine story about the beach and learning how to swim and having to rescue Damon’s drunk ass from a pissed off snapping turtle, that Ian first felt the smile slip from his lips, just a little.

As he watched Mickey moving his hands animatedly and laughing at the memory, it suddenly struck Ian just how well Mickey had done without him, and some small part of Ian—that selfish, narcissistic part that he hated about himself more than anything—stirred with a pang of jealousy. Even if he would be too ashamed to ever admit it aloud, it was that small part of him that had haunted him the most over the past two years, always conjuring up images in his mind of Mickey struggling alone, pining after Ian, desperate for Ian to come find him.  To come save him. He should have known that Mickey was stronger than that. Stronger than him. He had done fine on his own and didn’t need Ian’s saving. Why would he? Maybe after all these years it was still Ian that needed to be rescued, same as it had always been.

Ian quickly tried to push these thoughts away – the unwarranted jealousy and self-pity and doubt – and instead focus on what was right in front of him, right now. He found his gaze drawn to the laugh lines that framed Mickey’s eyes, to the deep creases around his mouth as his full lips pulled back into a dazzling smile, and immediately Ian felt a soothing warmth spread back through his every limb as his own smile was firmly reaffixed on his face. Mickey seemed blissfully unware that Ian had just been lost inside his own head for a minute, finishing his story about Damon and the turtle (“…he’s lucky he’s still got two nuts, I fucking swear!”) and immediately launching into another that had Damon mistaking the wife of the mayor of Mexico City for a Puerto Rican hooker.

“…It was fucking ridiculous, man. Your fucking freckled mug would have been beet red if you’d been there,” Mickey laughed, bumping shoulders with Ian playfully and finally turning to meet Ian’s adoring gaze for several drawn out seconds. Mickey’s expression briefly sobered as the very air around them seemed to crackle with electricity, but before Ian could do more than blink stupidly a handful of times Mickey turned his head back forward and broke the connection.

“Uh, that’s me over there,” Ian said somewhat awkwardly, pointing across the street at his apartment building which had just now come into view.

“Well lead the way, Firecrotch,” Mickey smirked, shoving him forward lightly and recapturing some of the comfortable playfulness they had had just moments before.

Ian couldn’t help but grin back as they started across the street. God, he had missed this. Missed Mickey. He was trying to heed Mandy’s advice to take things slow. Trying to remember what he had promised Mickey less than an hour ago, that they could spend time together just as friends, just a couple of guys hanging out. But every smile they exchanged, every laugh, every look, even every shared silence, had Ian more and more convinced that he wasn’t going to be able to hold out for long. That he’d always want more. Need all of Mick. _Just keep chipping._

Ian was still smiling as he made his way up the crumbling concrete steps of his five story, red-brick walk-up, Mickey following closely behind. But as he pulled open the exterior door, he suddenly felt nervous, his stomach flip-flopping uncomfortably as his eyes quickly swept around the small, grimy lobby of his building. Had the large mirror on the wall to the left always been cracked like that? He looked up. God, did the overhead lights always flicker so much? He felt a hot flush creeping up his neck.

“I, uh, I just gotta check my mail real quick. Forgot the past few days and the super gets pissy if we leave it. Just been so busy with work and stuff…” he trailed off lamely, feeling an inexplicable need to explain himself and fill the silence of the cramped, suddenly suffocating lobby. After everything he’d just learned about his life in Mexico, bringing Mickey back to his shitty, rat hole of an apartment suddenly seemed like an awful idea, and he couldn’t stop the feeling of complete embarrassment that was overtaking him.

*

Mickey stood back and watched as Ian made his way over to the wall of mailboxes, choosing a small bronze key from the ring he produced out of his pocket and using it to open the small square box that held a few envelopes and an impressive stack of flyers that had been shoved inside. He felt his forehead furrow slightly and a bemused sort of smile play across his lips as he was struck by the absurdity of it all. He was casually standing in a rundown apartment building on the South Side of Chicago, looking at Ian fucking Gallagher collecting his fucking mail. He wanted to laugh. It seemed so unlikely and yet so ridiculously ordinary that Mickey was having a really tough time wrapping his head around it.

And yeah, maybe he was still a little stoned.

He snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the buzz and click which signaled that Ian had opened the interior door that led to a single, narrow staircase.  Mickey made to follow him inside but had to stop short when Ian hesitated in the doorway, his head slightly bowed. He turned back and seemed to force himself to meet Mickey’s eyes, his checks tinged red.

“It’s um…” Ian cleared his throat. “Well it– it’s not much. Just what I can afford for now, you know? Sorry…I know you’re probably used to different things now, nice shit or whatever...”

Mickey scoffed. “Gallagher, I’m still fucking South Side, born and raised. You don’t gotta apologize–” Mickey cut himself short, but then quickly added what he was already thinking. “Not for this shit anyways.”

Ian visibly deflated a bit and dropped his eyes to the ground.  

“Hey man, come on. I didn’t–” Mickey sighed and started over. “Look, you’re living on your own, paying for your own fucking place, not having to share shit with anyone. You fucking kidding me? That’s already more than what any of us thought we’d ever get, right? So cut the pity shit and let’s go,” Mickey said without malice, tilting his head to try to catch Ian’s eye and raising his brows expectantly.

“Yeah. I guess I didn’t think of it like that.” Ian looked up and offered Mickey a small, shy smile before moving on through the door and holding it open for Mickey to grab. “I’m on the third floor,” he added, as he started up the stairs, fanning through his keys with his free hand for the one that would open his apartment door. Mickey followed behind at a leisurely pace, doing his absolute best to keep his eyes off the redhead’s very firm ass. _Shit. Rein it in, asshole._

As it was, Mickey became distracted for an entirely different reason by the time they reached the third floor landing as Ian’s entire body seemed to tense as they entered the hallway, and it wasn’t difficult for Mickey to guess why. The wall mounted lights in the third floor corridor flickered just as badly as those in the lobby downstairs, but it wasn’t enough to distract the eye away from the door on which someone had inscribed the word WHORE in dark red spray paint, or the several indistinct stains that decorated the torn hallway carpet. The air was infused with the smell of curry and cigarette smoke, but it didn’t completely mask the underlying and unmistakable scent of piss which suggested what several of those mysterious carpet stains just might be. As they walked further they could hear from behind another door a couple engaged in some sort of domestic squabble, their escalating chorus of curses punctuated only by the occasional crash of a dish hitting the floor or a wall. Ian snuck a furtive look back at Mickey, jaw clenched tight, noticeably embarrassed again. “Perfect,” he huffed out quietly.

As they approached Ian’s door Mickey’s eyes were drawn to Ian’s right hand which was fisted tightly around his keys. Without seeming to realize he was doing so, Ian had started running his fist roughly against the side of his thigh, up and down, over and over again. Mickey’s chest immediately tightened as he recognized the nervous tick, his breath catching, but going unheard.

After Ian’s first episode, after Fiona and Lip had tried to explain to him that Ian was sick, Mickey had made it a point to pay a little more attention to the things Ian did, looking for signs that something might really be off.  Of course he never admitted this to anyone, but Mickey felt like he needed to see and understand for himself before he could truly accept what Ian’s siblings had been trying to tell him. He dismissed a lot of the signs – things he could now kill himself for trying to deny – but Ian’s nervous energy, the way he started to buzz as though he had some sort of invisible itch he just couldn’t scratch, was something Mickey had never been able to ignore. He came to realize that whenever Ian got like that, or after his diagnosis any time he felt like he was spinning away, he would rub at his thigh as a way to ground himself. To remind himself he was still there. They never talked about that kind of shit back then – Mickey never admitting he knew why Ian did this and Ian never admitting that he did it in the first place.  Mickey watched on as Ian stopped long enough to bring a shaky, white-knuckled hand up to try to unlock his door, struggling to fit the key in the deadbolt, nervousness noticeably mounting.

Mickey didn’t think twice. He simply surrendered to the old impulse, reaching out and lightly holding onto Ian’s raised arm, just like he’d done a hundred times before.

“Hey man,” he breathed softly.

Ian stilled at the familiar touch and inhaled deeply though barely parted lips. He turned his face slightly and immediately fell into the reassurance of Mickey’s soft blue eyes.

“Hey. It’s fine. Ok?”

The connection was immediately intense, and in some far corner of Mickey’s mind a little voice was cursing wildly and screaming at him to pull away, but Mickey didn’t break his gaze until he felt Ian begin to relax under his hand and he had Ian gently nodding his head in time with his own. Only then did Mickey drop his hand and take a small step back, allowing Ian to turn his attention to the door once more. With a steadier hand Ian brought his keys up to the deadbolt and unlocked it on his next try. He pushed the door open and entered tentatively, leading Mickey inside.

“Well, welcome to my shithole,” Ian said, spreading his arms wide with feigned bravado.

For the second time in a matter of minutes Mickey felt a tightening in his chest, though this time not from worry but for a different reason entirely: even without having given it any prior consideration, Ian’s apartment was exactly as Mickey would expect it to be. It was small without feeling cramped. It was cluttered without being messy. It was comfortable and lived in. It was Ian.

The front door opened directly into the living room which was still partially illuminated by the dull light let in by a single window on the far wall. The window led out to a rickety-looking fire escape but beyond that not much could be seen save for the brick wall of the building across the alleyway. A colorful afghan Mickey recognized from the house on Wallace lay over the back of an overstuffed couch in the middle of the room, and across from it stood a very conservative and outdated entertainment unit on which a small flat screen had been awkwardly fitted, along with an old Xbox and an assortment of games and DVDs. A single controller was stretched across the floor, the long cord winding its way up and between a few empty beer bottles and an open box of Pop Tarts left out on the coffee table, to rest on what Mickey assumed was Ian’s spot on the couch. It did not escape Mickey’s notice that there was only a single controller. Just one.

Ian flipped a switch next to the door and Mickey was surprised when the room didn’t fill with the harsh florescent light he’d expected. Instead the small space was flooded with a soft, warm glow from two simple shaded wall sconces that flanked either side of the entertainment unit.  The walls themselves were otherwise bare save for a single poster that detailed the entire muscular system of the human body, like you would see in a doctor’s office, but Mickey saw that framed pictures of the Gallagher clan seemed to be crammed onto any and all available shelf space around the room.  

Mickey’s eyes followed Ian as he moved into the small kitchen alcove off to the right where he tossed his keys in a bowl on the counter and deposited his mail. Too small to fit any sort of table or chairs, it consisted of just enough counter space for the essentials—microwave, toaster, coffee maker, and a two burner electric hot top. A few clean dishes were stacked next to the sink where they had been left to dry, and above that several orange prescription pill bottles were neatly arranged on an old wooden spice rack. In the doorway leading into the kitchenette was mounted a chin up bar to go along with the small set of free weighs tucked away in the corner of the living room by the entertainment unit.

As he stood there taking it all in Mickey was relieved to find that the mix of unpleasant smells from the hallway did not penetrate past the front door now that it was closed behind them. Inside the apartment it simply smelt like Ian. Like mint shampoo and Old Spice deodorant and something else indistinguishable that was just him. Maybe his laundry detergent or some other shit. Mickey didn’t fucking know, but it was there, and he could smell it and it was Ian. And if Mickey’s eyes briefly closed as he breathed in deeply through his nose to get the full effect, then he only hoped that Ian didn’t notice.

_“I like how he smells.”_

In that moment, as Mickey held the intoxicating air in his lungs for a few seconds longer than necessary, he couldn’t help but think back to the day he had heard Ian say those words. It felt like several lifetimes ago now but he could still remember it as clear as if it had happened that very morning. He’d overslept, not wanting to leave the warm safety of Ian’s tiny twin bed, not wanting to go through the bullshit of the baby’s christening. Certainly not wanting to deal with Svet and, most of all, dreading the thought of having to face his father again for the first time in months. But Ian was already up – he could hear soft grunts coming from the hallway where he did his morning chin up routine – and it had seemed pointless to put things off any longer. He had forced himself up and was looking for his pants when he realized Ian was not alone in the hall, but was talking between grunts to his little brother. Mickey still couldn’t be sure what exactly it was that had made him still, but he had, stopping in the midst of pulling on his jeans and keeping quiet to eavesdrop on their conversation without ever consciously deciding to do so.

“You love Mickey?” Carl had asked with a sort of innocent curiosity that Mickey had never heard from the kid before.

There was a pause. Mickey’s heart shuddered to a stop. His breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t move. He stood there in silence, just inside the bedroom door, awaiting the answer he’d never realized he so desperately needed.

“I like how he smells.”

_Fuck. Breathe. Move._

“What’ya asking stupid fucking questions for?” Mickey had groused as he moved as fast as he could into the open bathroom, doing what he did best. Throwing up his walls. Swallowing back the sigh that was begging to be released and pushing everything else down with it. _Fuck_.

Mickey couldn’t forget that day, even if he tried.  Some part of him had known already then that he’d loved Ian, had known for a long time probably, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt and a little confused when he’d heard Ian answer Carl the way that he had. But standing now in his apartment, breathing in the heady blend of smells, everything that was Ian, Mickey thought he finally understood just how meaningful that answer had been. And right then it was taking every bit of Mickey’s will power not to follow Ian into the kitchen, wrap his arms around him from behind, and bury his head in the hallow between Ian’s shoulder blades so he could breathe him in as if his very life depended on it.

Ian turned suddenly and broke through Mickey’s dangerously spiraling thoughts. “You want something to drink? Water? Beer? Juice?”

“H-huh? Oh, uh yeah, sure,” Mickey stammered.

Ian cocked a playful eyebrow, seeming much more at ease than he just moments before, now that they were actually through the front door. “Okaaay, which?”

“I’ll take a fucking beer, smartass,” Mickey answered gruffly, turning before Ian could see his reddening face.

_Get a fucking grip Milkovich, Christ._

As Ian grabbed a couple beers and rummaged around for a bottle opener Mickey strolled over to the entertainment unit as casually as he could manage, trying to snap himself out of it. He scanned the various titles of Ian’s DVD collection, scoffing to himself as his finger ran over the case for _Double Impact_ , wedged as it was between _Dirty Dancing_ and _The Notebook_. On a shelf higher up, among the candid photos of Ian’s siblings and a few other people Mickey didn’t recognize, were a handful of books – a couple of old paperbacks, a few military histories, an EMT study guide – and in the middle of it all some weird looking metal thing about the size of a small dinner plate. Mickey thought it vaguely looked like a star or maybe a leaf—some sort of abstract shit. Mickey didn’t do abstract.

“The fuck is this thing supposed to be?” Mickey asked, loud enough so that Ian could hear him. “I thought our South Side trash picking days were over.” He leaned in closer, reaching out a hand to run his thumb and index finger along the sharpest edges.

Ian appeared from out of the kitchen with two beers in hand and walked over to see what Mickey was referring to. “Oh yeah, that. Um…it’s just a sculpture an ex made.”

Mickey quickly dropped his hand back down to his side on hearing the word ‘ex.’

“Yeah, he ah…” Ian dropped his head and laughed humorlessly. “Well he was a real piece of work. Turned out he was bi and cheating on me with some old high school girlfriend. Only found out cause I fucking caught him in the act.”

“No shit?” Mickey didn’t even try to hide the smugness in his tone.

Ian just rolled his eyes and handed Mickey one of the beers, taking a swig of his own as he moved to stand behind the couch.

“I had a feeling something was up, so me and Lip followed him one day on the L. Fucking delusional. Told me it wasn’t cheating because it was a chick.” Ian shook his head at the memory before fixing his eyes on Mickey, who was inspecting the sculpture again with renewed curiosity. “Whatever. He was just a rebound.”

At that, Mickey looked over at Ian and scoffed. “Rebound, huh? The fuck would you keep a piece of junk he made if he fucked you over like that? If he was just some rebound?”

Ian leaned over the back of the couch and rested on his forearms, his hands coming together in front of him and his fingers lacing around his beer. He focused on the bottle, his brow furrowed, searching for the right words. He started slowly.

“You know…it’s weird. I was pretty pissed at first. Got rid of anything and everything having to do with him. Everything except that fucking sculpture. It just– I dunno. I guess it just always seemed to represent something more to me than just him. And the more time went by, the less it became about him at all. The whole experience with him, it was almost like something I _had_ to go through. A means to an end or something. The few months we were together I was just starting to feel like myself again. Meds were finally working. I was feeling more like the old me, like I wanted more. Feeling like maybe I could _be_ more, for the first time in a long while. When he suggested the EMT training… I don’t know. It just seemed like something I could do. Something to focus on. It was just nice to have something to work towards again, you know? After completely fucking up with the army…with everything that happened…” Ian paused staring into space, almost getting lost in the memory but seemingly shook it off. He blinked and looked up at Mickey. “I knew I would be good at it. I felt like I could finally _do_ something again…”

Ian pushed up off the back of the couch to take a small sip of beer and in the ensuing silence Mickey found himself reaching for the sculpture again, absently fingering along every edge as he took in everything Ian was saying.

“Anyways,” Ian continued after a minute, “Caleb – my ex – he made that for me when I passed my final qualifying exams. It’s supposed to represent the Star of Life – you know the symbol you see on like the side of ambulances and stuff? Anyways, I kept it. It doesn’t remind me of him. It never really did.  Just reminds me of where I’m at and how I got here, you know? Makes me kinda proud of what I did.” Ian bowed his head at that, as though embarrassed to admit something like that aloud. “Fuck, I don’t know if any of that shit makes sense, but that’s the best answer I got. Why I kept it, I mean.”

Mickey could feel it creeping over him again as he listened to Ian babble on. The same sense of pride as he’d got listening to Ian back at the dugout. Cutting through all the bitterness and resentment and pain—despite it all—he was proud of Ian for getting his shit together, for finding himself again. When he turned he found Ian still standing behind the couch, eyes on his beer and his free hand once again rubbing absently at his thigh, and it was on the tip of Mickey’s tongue to tell him. To close the distance between them and tilt Ian’s chin up and tell him how proud he was. He felt his pulse quicken at the thought but his feet remained firmly planted and the half-formed words sitting heavy on his tongue were swallowed back down with his next swig of beer.

Mickey sucked at his teeth as he pulled the bottle away from his lips. “Jesus Gallagher, I forgot how much you can talk a guy’s fucking ear off,” he snarked instead.

Ian’s head snapped up at the callous response, but when his eyes found Mickey’s face he saw the teasing smile playing around on his lips, recognizing his blatant attempt to get out of the heaviness of the conversation. Ian’s face cracked into a wide smile and he laughed deeply from his belly.

“And I forgot how much of a fucking asshole you can be!” he quipped back.

“Yeah, but you fucking love it.” Mickey drawled, raising his eyebrows knowingly, still smirking.

They both stood there for a bit too long, sizing each other up, eyes bright and a little wild, goofy grins plastered on both their faces. Mickey only realized what was happening when he felt the touch of that familiar flame lick lazily at his insides, somewhere deep down low. _Fuck._ He cleared his throat and quickly turned to look more at the scattered pictures next to the TV, trying to act natural, hating that he got lost in the moment in Ian’s green eyes. _Why the fuck is this so goddamn hard?_  

He grabbed at the closest picture, afraid of the deafening silence and yearning for something to fill it.

“Holy shit, this Debbie’s baby?” He held the picture out to show to Ian before bringing it back for a closer look.

“Yeah that’s Franny. She’s pretty fucking awesome. Just turned four but already super smart. Takes no shit.”

Mickey smiled in spite of himself. “Takes no shit, huh? Sounds like her mom.”

“Yeah– yeah, totally.” Ian gave Mickey a weird look, like he was missing something. “Didn’t realize you were close with Debs.”

“Wasn’t. Not really,” he said, turning to replace the picture to its proper spot. His eyes slowly roved over the other photos on the shelf, curious to see if he would find one of himself, refusing to acknowledge his disappointment when he didn’t. “She was just the one who was always there, you know, when all that shit went down. With your bipolar and everything…” His gaze landed on an unframed group photo propped up against some books. Ian in his EMT uniform surrounded by a bunch of other people similarly dressed. Ian had his arm casually slung around the hulking blonde standing next to him. Leaning in. Close. Familiar. “…and you know, the whole Sammi thing,” he finished, completely distracted.

“Wait, what?”

Mickey tore his eyes away from the offending arm and the blonde giant’s stupid fucking face, drawn back to the present by something in Ian’s tone. He turned to see Ian’s eyebrows drawn together in question.

“Uh, Sammi? Your whore piece of shit sister?”

“She is not my sister,” Ian said coolly, his lips tightening into a thin line.

“Whatever man, the piece of shit who turned you in. The piece of shit that fucking pressed charges against my ass.”

“Yeah, Sammi. I know who the fuck she is, Mick. I’m talking about Debbie. What about Debbie and Sammi? What do you mean she was there when shit went down…”

Ian’s eyes were laser locked on Mickey. He was already halfway around the couch before it even seemed like he realized he’d moved at all. He looked ready to crowd the space between Mickey and the coffee table but appeared to think better of it at the last second and perched straight-backed on the arm of the couch instead, both hands gripping tight around his half-finished beer. Mickey was thrown by the sudden intensity and stiff tension permeating the room.

“Well she was with me that night. Was the one who came up with the plan to roofie the bitch actually. Even helped lock her in that fucking crate after things went south.” He laughed bitterly. “Woulda thought you knew. She never said anything?” Mickey quirked his eyebrows in surprise. “I mean, I told her to keep her mouth fucking shut, but I figured she’d crack eventually…” He glanced at one of the older pictures of Debbie up on the shelf and frowned thoughtfully, suddenly gaining a newfound respect for the bossy, high-strung adolescent he remembered.

 “Jesus, no, she never fucking said anything about attempting to murder fucking Sammi,” Ian snapped. “Christ Mickey! When the fuck were you going to fill me in on that?”

Mickey set his beer down on the entertainment unit and met Ian’s fierce scowl with one of his own. “Aye, first off, nobody was trying to kill that dumb bitch, much as she fucking deserved it. Shit just…” Mickey waved his hands around in irritation, “…shit just happened, alright? And I dealt with it. And afterwards no one else needed to know. Especially not you–“

“But I–“ Ian tried to interject, starting to lift his ass from his perch on the couch, but Mickey silenced him with a look.

“You didn’t need to know that shit, alright? Fuck,” Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face, “it’s not like you were even around back then anyways. Like you woulda even given a shit?” he spat out.

Ian’s face crumpled at that and Mickey felt a sweep of shame pass over him but he quickly shook it off. Still, when he continued, his voice had lost some of its edge.

“And fucking Peppermint Patty? Yeah, she wanted to tell someone. Was freaking the fuck out. But she’s fucking tough and apparently she actually fucking listens. I told her it was all me. That if anything ever came up, if anyone ever found out, that it was all me. She was never there and she didn’t know fuck all about anything. Jesus,” he shook his head softy, “she was just a stupid fucking kid, and it’s not like I wasn’t already fucked for life. I knew I could handle it if I had to. If it wasn’t this it woulda just been some other shit, right? There was no reason for her to have to be a fuck up too. So yeah, when that crazy bitch came back from the grave I kept Debbie out of it,” Mickey’s voice was fierce again. “You Gallaghers always had enough fucking shit going on.  So it was me who ended up doing the time. Me who got the fucking fifteen years. No one knows she had fuck all to do with it and no one is ever gonna know so don’t fucking worry about it.”

Ian let out a shuttering breath, his eyes never leaving Mickey’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, as if trying to find the right words. Really it wouldn’t have mattered what Ian said in that moment. His anguished face said it all. Ian took another shaky breath and loosened his grip on his bottle of beer, leaning foward to place it on the coffee table among the old empties. He brought his hands back to his lap and pressed them flat against his thighs, the tips of his fingers curling under, just a little, before stilling.

“I never asked you to do any of that for me, Mick.” Ian’s voice quieted. “None of it.” His eyes were sad and soft and starting to fill.

Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. He only knew he couldn’t bring himself to keep talking about this shit. Not with Ian fucking Gallagher giving him the goddamn puppy dog eyes, threatening tears any second. He roughly shoved his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie to hide the fact that they were shaking.

“Yeah well, it’s fucking done.” He meant to say it angrily. He was angry. He _wanted_ to be angry. But even to his own ears his voice sounded thick and hoarse.  

Ian heard it too. He rose slowly from the arm of the couch and took a small, tentative step forward. “I’m so sorry, Mick. I’m– fuck, Mickey, I–”

“Don’t. Just– fucking don’t.”  

Ian blinked rapidly to keep his tears at bay. Mickey’s eyes had started sweeping around the room, nervously, looking anywhere but back at him. Ian bit down on his bottom lip so hard he was surprised he didn’t draw blood. It was taking everything in his power not to go over to Mickey, grab his face in both of his hands, and force him to look at him. Make him look into his eyes. Just kiss the shit outta him and never let go. Never let go ever again. Instead, he took one more tension releasing breath, his shoulders slumping as he took a step back. His heart was thumping wildly, screaming at him, but for once his mind seemed to know better. _Not now. Not yet._

“Right…well, um…I’m gonna hit up the shower and get ready I guess. I mean, if it’s still cool I tag along…if you– you’d rather I didn’t…”

Mickey thankfully cut through his awkward blabbering. “Nah man, it’s cool. Just hurry the fuck up and go get pretty.”

The corner of Ian’s mouth twitched reflexively in amusement, but he bit back his wry retort. The air still felt too heavy for joking around.

“Ok, you good hanging out or…”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll just play some Grand Theft Auto or…” Mickey’s pocket started vibrating. He pulled out his phone and looked at the caller ID. “Shit, it’s my sister. I’m just gonna take this. I’m good.” 

“Cool. Well there’s more beer in the fridge if you want,” Ian began, starting to back slowly from the room. “And tell Mandy I say hi.” He waited for Mickey to nod in acknowledgment, smiling softly before turning to head to the bathroom.

Mickey tracked Ian’s retreating form, hesitating to accept the call until after that shock of red hair had disappeared behind a door just off the short hallway that led from the living room. Mickey closed his eyes briefly, trying to recover from the emotional whiplash of the past twenty minutes. Jesus, the whole fucking day had been one giant, never ending roller coaster ride. He sighed and brought the phone up to his ear.

“What’s up douchebag? Feel like I’ve heard from you more in the past two days than I have in the past two years.” He began pacing around the living room. He needed a goddamn cigarette. He wondered idly if Ian would mind if he lit up in his apartment. Probably. Did he care? He shouldn’t. Fuck. 

_“Hey, fuck you dick breath! Your ass was incarcerated and you’re an escaped convict. Not much opportunity for your dear old sis to drop you a line now is there?”_

Mickey laughed once, still pacing but suddenly thankful for his sister’s distraction. His eyes briefly flickered over to the bathroom door before he circled around behind the couch. “Yeah, yeah, I’m the asshole, what else is–“

But before he could even finish the thought Mandy had abruptly cut him off and had started talking without stopping, without pause, without breath.

_“Mick, I have to tell you something and I need you to promise me you won’t get mad, but Ian ended up calling me today. Looking for you, wanting your number. And I totally wasn’t going to give it to him. Hell, I haven’t even answered any of that fuckhead’s calls or texts since he left your sorry ass—_

“Mandy—”

_“—fuck, no offense. You know I’m always on your fucking side, right? Shit. Well, anyways he told me shit went down last night. Like, literally. Gross Mick. What the fuck? But he just seemed really torn up about how things got left and how he wants to be with you and I didn’t really know what to do so I ended up giving him your number and don’t be mad at me. Don’t be a shithead. I just wanted to warn you so that if he did call you would at least know what’s up—"_

“Mandy _—”_

_“—I’m so sorry Mick. I should have called sooner. I shouldn’t have fucking given him a way to reach you but if you just heard him on the phone. You know how he is, he’s like a big fucking puppy dog. And it’s like you can’t stay mad. You can’t stay mad and it’s fucking annoying as shit. Christ. I’m actually surprised I was able to hold out for as long as I did—_

“Mandy!” Mickey finally had to shout.

_“Jesus, Mick, what?? I’m trying to tell you some—”_

“I’m here now.”

_“You’re here now where?”_

“I’m at Gallagher’s.”

_“What?! He called you already? Shit, he sounded so strung out on the phone I figured it would take him at least a day to work up to it…”_

 “Nah, he didn’t call. I just ran into him.”

_“Jesus Christ, you two got magically magnetic dicks or some shit?”_ Mandy groaned across the line, causing Mickey to chuckle again, in spite of it all. _“So fine, you ran into him. But what the fuck are you doing back at his place now? I thought you weren’t doing this again? What happened to you being mad?”_

Mickey quit his aimless pacing and moved quickly into the kitchenette, the furthest possible point away from the bathroom which was where Ian was now. Showering. Naked. Wet. _Rein it in._ Mickey grabbed a beer from the fridge, expertly popping the cap off the edge of the counter and downing a third of it real fast.

_“Mickey? I thought you were done with this Mick.”_

Mandy sounded less frantic now, her voice taking on a softer, more sympathetic tone. Mickey hated it. He lowered his beer and belched loudly.

“Yeah, well, I am,” he finally answered, wishing he felt half as sure as he sounded. “But it’s not like there’s fuck else to do while I’m here. Have you been here recently? Everything’s fucking different. Our house is a fucking pile of rubble, Mandy. It’s gone.”

Mandy huffed. _“Yeah? Well good riddance. I hope someone takes a giant shit on what’s left.”_ Mandy spoke quietly but with resolve, and Mickey got it. Mickey knew everything her words were weighted with. Everything that house represented was shit. Yeah it was where they’d grown up, and there were a few good memories collected there over the years, but they weren’t enough to erase the lasting stain of that place. It was as though all the bad that house had witnessed over the years, all the horrors and the filth, had seeped into the very walls, soaking into the carpet and through the floorboards and settling into the very foundation itself until nothing that passed under that roof could walk away clean. Eventually even those few good memories were tainted.

“Not a shit, but I did take a piss on it,” Mickey said, leaning back against the counter and taking another big swig of beer.

_“Really?”_ He could hear Mandy smiling through the phone. _“You are such an asshole.”_

“Yeah, that’s the sentiment of the day apparently.” Mickey couldn’t help smiling too.

_“But seriously Mick, what are you doing with Ian?”_

Mickey sighed the smile right off his face. Of course Mandy couldn’t let this go. He chugged back the rest of his beer before answering, relishing the way the cold bubbles hit the back of his throat and made his eyes water at the corners. He placed the empty bottle in the sink and grabbed one more fresh one from the fridge, feeling like he was gonna need it.

“Nothing, alright? I just figured we could hang out. I’m only here for a couple weeks. Why can’t we just hang out? Be like two normal fucking dudes who don’t like…you know…fuck?”

_“That’s what I said! That’s exactly what I fucking said to Ian. Man, I’m good.”_

“Alright, alright. Shut the fuck up.”

_“Well does this mean you aren’t mad anymore?”_

Mickey heard the shower turn off and the sound of the curtain being drawn back. He lowered his voice as he pushed off from the counter.

“Fuck no. I’m still mad. But like you said yourself, he’s a fucking puppy…”

Mickey walked out of the kitchenette and made his way over to the couch. He sat down where he would have a clear view of the bathroom door, wanting to be sure Ian couldn’t sneak up on his conversation, but it was a few seconds before his brain actually made sense of what he was seeing. When it finally did he froze, his eyes growing wide, the fresh beer already halfway raised to his lips completely forgotten. The bathroom door had been left open a crack, and through the steam escaping that narrow crack, of course, of fucking course, Mickey could see a sliver of Ian’s freckled skin. _Fuck_.

He couldn’t help it. He had no control over the matter whatsoever. Mickey’s body shifted on the couch just slightly of its own accord and suddenly he had a pretty decent view of more than just a sliver. _Jesus_.

Mandy was saying who the fuck knows what because Mickey was looking at the left side of Ian’s fucking perfect body. Naked. Dripping. Ian’s head was tilted out of sight and Mickey had to assume he was drying his hair with the towel that kept coming in and out of view. His eyes narrowed instead on the tight cord in Ian’s neck before moving down the sharp curves of his shoulder and back— _Jesus, did his back always look like that? No fucking way it used to look like THAT—_ to the soft spot of his lower back that dimpled right above his ass, water gliding through the dip and dripping down over the curve of his left cheek…

_“Yo! Earth to Mickey…”_

“Uh, Mandy I gotta– I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” Mickey slowly lowered the phone from his ear, swiping blindly to hang up on the muffled sound of Mandy’s indignant protests, his lingering eyes unwilling to break away from the vision of half a fucking Adonis standing before him.  Mickey bit his lip and adjusted himself none too gently, fully aware that it was not the right time for a raging hard on, but still his eyes watched on as Ian wrapped a towel around his waist, stealing Mickey’s view of Ian’s tight, bare ass.  He instead ran his eyes back up Ian’s back and focused on the image he could see reflected in the mirror. Ian was reaching for something to the right of the sink, and as he did Mickey caught a glimpse of something inked on his chest, right across the smooth plain of his left pec where Ian would place his hand during the National Anthem. Right where Mickey had stupidly misspelled ‘Ian Gallagher’ above his own heart. But before Mickey could try to get a better look Ian began pulling a white tank top over his head and turned, pushing the door fully open and stepping out of the steamy bathroom. Mickey’s eyes automatically dropped to the patch of fiery hair that blazed a trail down from Ian’s belly button and past the deep cuts of his pelvis to where it disappeared behind the towel hanging off his hips. _Rein. It. In._

Mickey took a quick swig of his beer and licked his lips, immediately catching Ian’s attention.

“New tat?”

Ian stopped dead in his tracks, quickly pulling his shirt down the rest of the way to cover his exposed stomach, his face already flushed from the heat of the shower turning an even deeper shade of red. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, even while somehow managing to fix Mickey with those damn puppy dog eyes. Again. _Fucking Gallagher_.

“Uh yeah…well no. Not that new…had it almost a couple years.”

“What’s it of?” Mickey pushed.

“Nothing. It’s dumb,” Ian quickly answered, his hand coming up to rub self-consciously across the thin fabric stretched tight across his chest. “What um…what type of party is this we’re hitting up anyway? Didn’t know what I should be wearing.” Ian’s face was still red. Mickey had obviously hit upon a sore subject with the new tattoo and he could tell Ian was hiding something, but he let it go for now.

“Mmm, right,” Mickey hummed as he popped up from the couch. “Well it’s kinda fancy. Not too formal, like a fucking tux or anything, but it’s a charity event in the North Side, so business attire I guess. You got a suit or something? If not, the guy I’m staying with might have something. He’s a tall-ass motherfucker too.”

The change that came over Ian at Mickey’s casual mention of Trey was immediate. Upon being reminded that Mickey was staying with another guy, Ian seemed to forget entirely about his awkwardness concerning the secret tattoo from just moments before. Mickey could practically see the jealously sweep over Ian like a tidal wave. He suddenly stood up straighter, his arms crossing stiffly across his puffed out chest. He jutted his chin just a tad – _Jesus Gallagher, not the chin_ – a few water droplets still dripping down his neck to pool in the sharp hallows of his collarbone, and fixed Mickey with a look that had blood pumping straight to his dick.

“Nah man, I think I got something,” he replied simply, but there was a fire blazing behind Ian’s eyes that Mickey was sure he’d never seen before.

Mickey’s insides felt like they had been reduced to ash, but on the outside he managed to keep his cool. He met Ian’s eyes with a smoldering look of his own before letting his gaze drop, noticeably trailing his eyes down the shirt clinging wetly to Ian’s torso. He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and allowed his eyes to linger for a few seconds on the spot where the fabric of Ian’s shirt bunched over the knot of the towel wrapped low on his hips before coming back up to meet Ian’s eyes again, still blazing. He released his bottom lip from his teeth and ran his tongue along it. Without breaking his gaze he nodded and shrugged lightly.

“Alright then. Gonna go have a smoke outside and wait for you there. That cool?”

Before Ian could reply Mickey’s pocket vibrated again, interrupting the heated moment. Mickey pulled out his phone to find a text from Mandy.

**[7:36pm] I give you guys a day. One day until his dick is up your ass, if it isn’t already. Love you douchebag.**

After the text message was a string of emojis _:_ Eggplant. Peach. Kissy face. Middle finger.

_Fucking Mandy._

Mickey quickly shoved the phone back in his pocket, pissed that Mandy thought he wouldn’t be able to handle this. Angry with himself cause maybe she was right.

He looked up to see Ian still standing there, staring at him expectantly.

“Move your ass if you wanna come, Gallagher. I’ll be outside,” he said gruffly, taking his half-finished beer and quickly making for the front door before Ian could notice the traitorous blush starting to spread across his cheeks.

*

Ian’s heart was racing as he hurriedly pulled his best and only suit out of his closet. He couldn’t believe the electricity that was firing between him and Mickey, even after their pact to just spend time together as friends. Without all the complicated emotions. Without fucking.

Ian dropped his towel and pulled roughly on his dick to get it to settle down before slipping on a pair of boxers. He wondered if Mickey was having as much difficulty as he was. Because if Ian was to be honest with himself, every other second since Mickey had showed up at the dugout had been a physical struggle for him. There hadn’t been a moment during their time together so far that Ian didn’t want to be touching him. Didn’t want to be feeling Mickey’s skin, or brushing his fingers through his hair. Every minute spent together just increased his frustration, his want and his need. And all he could do was hope that, with time, Mickey might feel the same way. The past two hours had felt like one long, drawn out game of high-stakes emotional ping-pong, but Ian couldn’t help but feel like maybe he was getting close to achieving a small victory. _Just keep chipping._

Ian was trying to quickly button his shirt with slightly shaking fingers when his thoughts were interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone. He went over to grab it off his bed and saw that it was another text from Mandy.

**[7:39pm] This isn’t a game of grab ass. You gotta work for it. Hope you have a plan. Hurt my brother again and I’ll gut you like a fish. Love you assface.**

Mandy’s message was again followed by a string of emojis. Fish. Knife. Skull and crossbones. Kissy face. Heart. Fingers crossed. 

Ian stared down at his phone and his heart swelled. He knew he’d missed Mandy, but until today he hadn’t realized in a while just how much. His eyes fixated on the last two symbols of her message and his face broke into a smile. It made him feel more confident in his conquest knowing that Mandy was rooting for him.

Rooting for them.

2.

Mickey paced out in front of Ian’s apartment building, anxiously pulling on the brim of his White Sox hat every few turns and puffing away on his cigarettes, one after the other, breathing in deeply and trying to calm the nerves and sexual frustration that had just overridden his body. He really didn’t think it would be this fucking hard, the two of them just trying to hang out together without something happening. Being apart for as long as they had he thought maybe it would have faded away. His want and need for Ian fucking Gallagher. But if anything it had just grown stronger. Absence makes the heart grow however the fuck that gay shit went.

But, if he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t just the sexual frustration that had him so worked up. It was also every other fucking emotion he’d just been hammered with on top of that – worry, anger, resentment, jealousy, pride, comfort, familiarity – a relentless barrage of feelings hitting him one after the other in rapid succession as if he was standing in front of a ten-man firing squad. Mickey felt unsteady and he knew he needed to be on his A-game tonight for his first meeting with Winters. Maybe it wasn’t too late to tell Ian he’d changed his mind after all and head to the event himself.

Mickey continued to pace, finishing his second cigarette in record time and pulling out a third, thinking back to how he and Ian used to be. The magnetism and electricity between the two of them, the heat and desire, everything that drew them to one another in the first place and brought them back together time and time again—he’d failed to notice how big it was back then. He’d taken for granted how fucking powerful their connection was. It was too close then, too close for him to see it. For him to recognize it for what it truly was. But now, being back, seeing Ian, spending time with him, trying to block off and ignore that part of them, pretend that they could just be friends? What a fucking joke. Mickey felt like an idiot for thinking he could do this. That they could do this.

_Fuck this shit. I need to call it off._

Mickey made his decision. He threw the remainder of his cigarette in the gutter and turned to jog back up the steps to Ian’s apartment, but was brought to a halt by the click of the glass door and what felt like the wind being knocked right out of him. _Fuck._

Mickey stepped back to watch Ian walk out of his building and fuck if he didn’t remember a single goddamn thing he was just about to say. But Mickey knew how to play it cool, always did, even when it felt like the butterflies in his stomach had started a fucking mosh pit while a goddamn high school marching band on speed stomped around on his heart to the tune of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck.

Mickey focused on keeping his expression neutral and reached into his pocket to tap out one more smoke from his quickly depleting pack as Ian bounded down the steps and came to stand just feet in front of him. Mickey was acutely aware that they were now standing closer than they had the entire time they were inside Ian’s apartment.

“Ready,” Ian said with a smile, seemingly unaware that their sudden close proximity was making Mickey’s heart pound uncomfortably fast in his chest.

Mickey didn’t trust himself to speak just yet. The scent of Ian’s mint shampoo was filling his nose and making his brain all foggy. The street light they were standing under was catching the ring of gold that circled the black of Ian’s pupils and Mickey wasn’t sure he remembered his own fucking name. He stalled for time by bringing the unlit cigarette up to his lips even as he realized he could count every individual freckle painted across Ian’s nose if he wanted to. _Jesus._

Mickey leaned back against the shitbox parked illegally in front of Ian’s place, desperate to put some space between them and regain some semblance of control. He lit the cigarette dangling from his mouth and took a deep, calming drag before slowly breathing out the smoke and licking his lips. When he finally found his voice he was relieved to hear it sounded cool and controlled.

“Well damn Gallagher, you clean up real nice.”  Mickey motioned with the hand holding his cigarette that Ian should turn so he could check him out fully. Ian laughed but readily complied, making a show of spinning in a circle so Mickey could appreciate just how good he looked.

His suit was a cool, dark blue, complementing the fiery red of his hair, and pristinely tailored to fit his toned body perfectly. He’d opted not to wear a tie and had instead left the first few buttons of his steal gray shirt casually undone. He wore black dress shoes, simply laced and perfectly polished and his hair was combed back and neatly styled along a side part.

Ian started a second circuit with his arms stretched out to the sides, this time looking back over his shoulder as he turned, lips twitching into a cocky half smile as Mickey trailed his eyes all over his body. The fucker looked incredible and he knew it.

Mickey took another long drag from this cigarette and silently willed his dick to settle the fuck down. As he slowly exhaled and blew the smoke away from where Ian was standing he tried to focus on the sharp lines of his suit, the precise cut, all the delicate stitching.

“Is that fucking Gucci?” Mickey had come to appreciate a good suit since starting to work for Martinez, and he knew a good suit that fit right, cost money. The sort of money he assumed Ian didn’t have at his disposal. “That’s like two G’s easy, man. How the fuck you swing that?”

Ian shrugged. “Got it from a guy I was seeing. He wanted me to come to some New Year’s party with him on the North Side but it was a formal event. I didn’t have anything that made the cut and couldn’t afford to buy shit so he ended up getting it for me. It’s the fucking only suit I own but it’s not bad right?” Ian wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Mickey’s face darkened. “Let me guess, one of the geriatric fucks you like to go down on?” he scoffed and shoved off from the parked car, starting down the sidewalk and towards the L without another word.

“Oh come on Mick. Doesn’t mean anything.” Ian pushed long strides to keep up with Mickey’s quick pace, trailing a little behind him.  “Just fucking passing time. What do you care?” He sounded surprised and maybe a bit hurt.

Mickey huffed out a toneless “don’t,” keeping his eyes forward.  He took a final drag off his cigarette before irritably flicking the butt onto the street.

It was silent for all of five seconds before he heard Ian tsk behind him and adopt a more playful tone. “Well what’s up with you knowing the brand name of a suit on fucking sight, hmm? Jesus Mick, look at you, turning all high end,” he teased.

“Eh, whatever man. It’s part of the job. And liking what I like don’t make me a bitch. Turns out I like fucking suits.” Mickey finally slowed a bit, letting Ian catch up fully so they could walk together. He gave him a sidelong glance before quickly fixing his eyes forward again. “And you don’t look half bad in yours, Gallagher. If you’re gonna suck old man balls, glad to see you’re actually getting some quality shit out of it.”

Ian chuckled and elbowed Mickey lightly. “Aww Mick, you think I look pretty.”

Mickey turned and took in the shade of Ian’s hair, looking more bronze than red in that moment under the yellow street lights. The unique shape of his eyes, green and bright and surrounded by all those tiny little creases that formed when he smiled wide. And that smile. Big and warm and goofy. Something Mickey knew Ian didn’t share with just anyone.

_Fucking gorgeous, yeah_.

Mickey felt the tug of a smile on his own lips and rolled his eyes.

“Alright Gucci, calm your tits. Let’s go.”

And with that they raced up the stairs to the L like a couple of stupid teenagers, jostling one another in an unspoken contest to be the first to the top, laughter on their lips and a new light in their eyes.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian finally meets the mystery person Mickey is staying with while in the city, and he doesn't like him one bit... for a multitude of reasons. The angst and slow burn continues on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks per usual goes out to @ms.gallavich for her edits that make the story what it truly is. <3

Ian peppered Mickey with a series of soft punches to his lower back, trying to get him to keep pressing forward so Ian could crowd in behind him and they could walk through the revolving door of the high-rise building together.  

“Aye! You better holster those fucking mitts if you know what’s good for you,” Mickey warned.  The two men shuffle stepped somewhat awkwardly through the cramped space, both fully aware that the only thing separating Ian’s dick from Mickey’s ass right then were a few thin layers of fabric.

A devilish smile that could be heard in his voice stretched across Ian’s face. “Oh yeah? What’re you gonna be able to do about it, huh tough guy?” The entire train ride into the North Side had been easy and comfortable, playful even, and Ian was feeling emboldened by it all. He reached down with both hands and squeezed the soft, sensitive spots just above Mickey’s hips where years of experience had taught Ian he was most ticklish.

“Aye, aye, aye!” Mickey swatted ineffectually at Ian’s hands as they both stumbled into the lobby laughing. Ian didn’t think he would ever tire of hearing Mickey’s laugh. It was surprisingly sweet and uninhibited but so unfairly rare that whenever Ian was the one to draw it out of him he felt an overwhelming rush of emotion sweep through him.

Mickey quickly sobered and nodded curtly at the man sitting behind the lobby desk, but when he looked back at Ian and motioned with his head that he should follow, there was still a playful smirk lingering on his lips.

Ian trailed behind Mickey as he led them over to the elevator, finally tearing his eyes away from the shorter man for what felt like the first time in hours so he could take in his surroundings. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

The floor was a cool, white and grey marble and the walls a pristine ivory, accented by the thick, ivory damask drapes incorporating black floral design that hung heavy around the unnecessarily large foyer. It was the perfect balance of luscious luxury and modernity that only money could achieve. Across from the lobby desk was a large space filled with expensive but uncomfortable looking black leather furniture, and in the middle of it all an elaborate light installation that hung from the high ceiling and nearly reached the floor, casting weird, dancing patterns onto the surfaces of everything surrounding it. The place was definitely a few steps up from the crumbling piece of shit Ian had just brought Mickey back to. A few hundred steps. Probably a few thousand.

Ian felt the familiar itch of anxiety start to prickle at his skin but the waves of jealousy crashing over him were stronger. They distracted him from the itch and were for now keeping the full brunt of his anxiety at bay.

_Who the fuck was this friend that Mickey was staying with? What kind of asshole could afford a place like this? Was he just a friend? How the fuck did Mickey know someone in the North Side anyway?_

His eyes finished sweeping the lobby and came back to find Mickey standing next to the open elevator door, watching him closely. Ian quickly tried to unfurrow his brow but it was too late, Mickey could always read him like an open book.

“So what,” Mickey thumbed his nose, “you don’t think a piece of shit like me could stay at a place like this?”

“No Mick, nothing like that–“

Mickey turned and Ian followed him into the waiting elevator. _Jesus, did Mickey just hit the button for the top floor?_

“–Just wondering who this _friend_ of yours is that you’re staying with,” Ian continued, giving undue emphasis to the word ‘friend’. He leaned back against the mirrored wall of the elevator opposite Mickey and did his best to keep his expression neutral and his chin in check. “You’re being awfully tight-lipped about the whole thing,” he finished, trying for casual nonchalance as he brought his arms up to cross across his chest so his hands wouldn’t do something stupid to give away his complete lack of chill.

Mickey likewise crossed his arms over his broad chest and let his amusement openly flit across his features. It was infuriating. And sexy as all hell. And infuriating.

Mickey continued to hold his gaze as the elevator started its slow ascent up to the 34th floor, the amusement in his eyes gradually replaced by… something else…something darker... and for a minute Ian thought he wasn’t going to answer. And suddenly that was ok. Suddenly Ian couldn’t give two shits about who this mystery guy was, so long as Mickey kept looking at him like that and never stopped. Ian felt a jolt of electricity run down his spine and ignite something deep in his lower abdomen that went straight to his groin.

Finally, Mickey dropped his arms, pushing off the mirrored wall to stand up straight. Ian unconsciously mimicked Mickey’s movements and the two were now standing only feet apart. Ian thought distantly that the recycled air of the elevator felt decidedly heavier.

“I just met the guy yesterday, ok? Name’s Trey.” Ian took a small step forward, moving without consciously meaning to, pulled in by the low hum of Mickey’s voice. “And he’s just some guy Mandy knows. She set the whole thing up.” Another small step. Ian was being drawn to Mickey like a magnet. “B-but…he doesn’t know Mandy’s my sister–” _Did Mickey’s breath just catch? Holy shit._ Another step. “–and he thinks my name’s Jake, so keep the fucking ‘Micks’ to yourself alright?” A final small step brought them toe to toe. Ian was struggling to remember how to blink, but then maybe so was Mickey. Heavily lidded pools of blue stared up at him, dark and inviting, and Ian was drowning. “You think you can handle that Freckles?” Mickey’s warm breath ghosted over Ian’s face smelling of beer and menthol and something just a little bit sweet and Ian was so desperate to taste it he could cry.

Ian thought he was nodding his head in agreement, but he couldn’t be sure. The air around them was definitely heavier and it was making his every movement slow and sluggish. He finally broke their gaze, dropping his eyes to stare at Mickey’s lips without meaning to. Each breath Ian took sat heavy in his lungs. He dragged his eyes back up to Mickey’s and licked his own lips without thinking. It was hot in here. _Was it hot in here?_   The seconds were slipping by and Ian knew he needed to say something but Mickey’s lips were slightly parted and his breath sounded as ragged as Ian’s own and it was just so fucking hard to _think_. Finally, with a truly Herculean effort, Ian mumbled out a few words in a low rasp, even as he impulsively started to move his lips down to Mickey’s, his eyes fluttering closed as he brought his face within an inch of Mickey’s own.

“Sure Jake, whatever you say…”

**_Ding_ **

The elevator had reached its destination and the rush of cool air that swept through the metal doors as they opened was like a bucket of cold water over the head. Ian’s eyes snapped open and he quickly straightened and took a hurried step back from Mickey, who was now furiously working his jaw and looking suddenly dangerous. Ian’s heart was beating erratically as he waited for the fallout, but Mickey didn’t cuss him out or shove him roughly like Ian thought he might. After a moment he simply rolled his eyes and started off down the hall.

“Come on Casanova,” Mickey called back over his shoulder, “time is money.”

Ian closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths, trying not to think about the way his lips had just been magnetically drawn to Mickey’s. _Fucking elevators._ He rolled his eyes open and silently cursed himself as he slipped out into the carpeted hall as the doors started to slide close.

_But Mickey’s lips had been closing the distance between them too, hadn’t they?_

Mickey had already come to a stop in front of a door about halfway down the hall when Ian caught up. Ian noticed the rough way Mickey was digging around in the pocket of his jeans and the stiff set of his jaw. Ian felt a desperate need to say something – _anything_ –  about whatever it was that had just passed between them, but as Mickey was tugging out a set of keys the door in front of them was suddenly pulled open from the inside and the words died somewhere in the back of Ian’s throat.

The shirtless man that stood on the other side of the door was tall, taller than Ian (who stood up just a bit straighter), and every inch of his exposed skin was flawless and perfectly tanned (Ian fingered self-consciously at the collar of his dress shirt where his own pale, freckled skin was showing). He wore only black mesh shorts hung low ( _stupidly low!_ ) on his hips and his bare chest was covered in a light sheen of sweat. His abs rippled ( _rippled!_ ) as he lifted perfectly toned arms to remove his ear buds, his lips parting in a slow smile to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth (Ian had to forcibly clench his jaw to keep from viciously grinding his own).

_Trey_ , he presumed.  

Ian was filled with immediate loathing for the man. Some small, rational, annoying part of him recognized that this wasn’t fair – barely five seconds had passed and the guy hadn’t even said anything yet – but as he watched Trey lick his lips and trail his eyes lecherously all over Mickey’s body that small part of him was quickly silenced. _Fuck this guy._

Trey’s eyes finally locked onto Mickey’s face and they blazed with an intensity that made Ian’s hackles rise. He felt an overwhelming need to place himself in front of Mickey and shield him from this creep. Of course he _knew_ the very idea was utterly ridiculous – that Mickey would ever need that kind of protection – but it didn’t stop him from moving a little closer to Mickey’s side all the same.

“Jake! Was just about to do a few cool down laps around the block,” Trey said, running a hand through his damp hair, fingers combing it back off of his forehead. His gaze once again dropped to take Mickey in, his eyes not once sparing so much as a single glance in Ian’s direction.  “But I can raincheck that if you wanted to maybe do something else...” His voice dripped with suggestion and his blatant eye fucking had Ian’s fists curling tightly at his sides as another wave of jealousy ripped through him.

_Who the fuck was this guy? And is he serious with looking like that? THIS is who Mickey’s fucking staying with? The creep looks like he wants to fucking devour him. Why is Mickey not beating the shit out of this guy for looking at him like that?  Jesus, have they already fucked?  Maybe I should beat the shit out of him. Fuck this guy, fuckfuckfuck._

Ian was torn from his spiraling train of thought when he heard Mickey _tsk_ and huff out a response.

“Nah man c’mon, I got someone here. Trey, this is my…” Mickey hesitated, appearing to struggle to find the right word to describe who Ian was to him, but to the surprise of both men Mickey was saved the trouble.

“Curtis! Long time no see.”

_What the fuck._

Mickey shot Ian a confused look which he returned in kind before they both turned back to gape at Trey stupidly. He seemed to have finally deemed Ian worthy of his attention. Trey was looking him up and down but gone was that heated look he had used on Mickey just moments before. Instead, Trey fixed him with a knowing smirk that made Ian’s stomach churn unpleasantly before holding out his hand for Ian to shake. Ian couldn’t explain why, but suddenly the thought of reaching out and taking the other man’s hand made him feel sick. He cleared his throat and did it anyway, aware that Mickey was watching him closely and it would be weird if he didn’t.

“Uh, I’m sorry but–“

“What, you don’t remember?” Trey asked, still gripping Ian’s hand tightly. Too tightly.

“Uh…” Ian spluttered, causing that knowing smirk on Trey’s face to grow impossibly smugger.

“I used to dance at The Fairy Tale back in the day. Before I got picked up for modeling,” he said, finally releasing his crushing hold on Ian’s hand and leaning lazily against the door frame.

_Jesus Christ, seriously? A fucking model? Of fucking course Mickey would be staying with an honest to God model. But why don’t I remember this asshole…?_

“You were all the rage back then, man,” Trey continued. “Star of the fucking show ‘til you just up and disappeared into thin air. Left a lot of guys hanging with blue balls,” he said with a meaningful wink. 

Ian could feel his ears turning red. “Uh, yeah I-I guess I needed to step away and, uh, reevaluate some shit. Didn’t end up going back,” Ian supplied vaguely, still thrown that he couldn’t place this guy who seemed to know all about him. He spared a quick glance at Mickey and saw that his eyebrows were drawn tight together, and he was watching Ian rub a hand up and down his thigh. Ian hadn’t even realized he was doing it. _Fuck_. He stilled his hand and Mickey’s eyes flickered up to meet his for the briefest second before turning back to Trey.

“No shit huh? You modeling now too? Acting? Sleep with the right guy at the right time and everything pretty much falls into place, am I right?” Trey said with a raise of his eyebrows. “No shame in my game,” he added with a chuckle.

Ian didn’t know what to say to that – he was feeling strangely unsettled by this whole interaction – but thankfully Mickey cut in before he had to figure it out. He sounded surprisingly protective and it made Ian feel both thrilled and horribly guilty at the same time to hear Mickey rush to defend him.

“First off,” he said, holding up a finger, “he didn’t bang sleazy dudes so he could become some fucking pretty boy in a magazine for creeps to jerk it to. Second,” he continued, ticking off another finger, “it’s none of your fucking business why he stopped working at that nasty cum dump. And third,” he now turned a questioning finger on Trey, “you – _you_ used to dance at the fucking Fairy Tale? And what—banged some old fuck for a modeling contract? Why am I not surprised,” he finished with a roll of his eyes.

Trey didn’t look the least bit concerned or offended, simply pleased to be focusing his attention on Mickey again. “Hey man,” he said, bringing his hands up in mock defense, “like I said, no shame in my game.” He pushed off the door frame and crowded into Mickey’s space, adopting a sickly honeyed tone that immediately had Ian seeing red again. “What about you Jake, hmm?  You got a job you want to give me? Let me get my foot in the entrepreneurial door?”

Mickey sucked his teeth but didn’t clock the fucker in the face like Ian hoped. “Fuck off man. I thought you were going for a run or some shit.”

Trey considered Mickey for a moment longer before finally backing away from the door and indicating with his hand that they should come in from the hall. “Nah it’s probably too late for that anyways,” he said over his shoulder. He was leading them into a large, open kitchen that faced an enormous, sunken living room with sweeping views of downtown. It was hard not to be impressed. Ian gritted his teeth again.

“I gotta shower and get ready for a late flight to New York,” Trey continued. “I’m going to be gone for a couple days, so the place is all yours,” he gestured around him, coming to stop behind a large kitchen island where he threw down his earbuds and leaned forward, planting his hands palms down on the smooth surface.

Ian stood close to Mickey on the other side of the kitchen, his eyes narrowing as they flickered back and forth between the two men. He was sure he could sense Mickey stiffen next to him as Trey fixed him with another salacious grin, and Ian swore he saw Trey roll his hips just slightly as he lazily drummed his fingers along the marble island top.

“Alright, cool,” Mickey replied simply, but Ian noticed him thumb his lip when Trey made no immediate move to leave, and his eyes kept nervously shifting to where Trey’s fingers were still dancing across the kitchen island that separated them. He was uncomfortable, Ian realized. He watched as Mickey crossed his arms and let his gaze drop, but he likewise made no move to go get ready. Ian got the distinct impression that Mickey didn’t want to leave him alone with Trey.

An oppressive silence fell. Mickey just standing there, worrying on his lip and not meeting anyone’s eye, Trey licking his lips and eye fucking Mickey like he wanted to bang him right then and there, and Ian, gaping incredulously at Trey and having to forcibly restrain himself from rushing around the island to slam his stupid face down on the marble counter.

Finally, after several long seconds of extreme awkwardness, Mickey lifted his head and met Trey’s gaze, raising expectant eyebrows so high they were in danger of disappearing into this hairline. Upon catching Mickey’s eye again, as if it was exactly what he was waiting for, Trey gave him a smoldering look and a sly smile.

“Well then, time to get wet.” Trey winked at Mickey and pushed off from the counter, turning to head down a hall leading further into the condo. “Good seeing ya Curtis,” he seemed to add as an afterthought, not even stopping to spare Ian a second glance.

Ian watched Mickey watching Trey disappear behind a door off the hallway, working furiously to mask the jealousy he felt contorting his every feature before Mickey turned back to face him. The way the side of Mickey’s lip curled up upon meeting his eye told Ian he was not successful. _Fuck it._

“So…that’s who you’re staying with.” It wasn’t a question and Ian didn’t even try for cool indifference. He was holding himself rigidly, his arms stiff at his side. His voice sounded unnaturally tight and he was certain if Trey walked back in the room right then he’d be able to eviscerate him with a single look.

Mickey seemed to be trying to stifle a laugh behind his cocky smirk which only caused Ian’s breathing to become more labored.

“Yep.” He crossed his arms and waited, probably knowing Ian wasn’t done.

Ian inhaled deeply through his nose, his jaw clenched tight. _Let it go_ , a small voice of reason whispered inside his head. He hated that fucking voice.

“So…a model, huh? A former stripper turned model who was basically in heat the second he opened the door and laid his pervy fucking eyes on you.”

Mickey lifted a mocking eyebrow. “Yep,” he said again, popping the ‘p’ with finality and all but snarling with pleasure at Ian’s obvious indignation.

_Let it go._

Ian couldn’t hold back the jealousy that was overtaking his body, invading his every pore and settling within his very bones. He could feel the heat boiling in his stomach and rising, making his blood pump, his pulse pound, his ears ring. The question was already burning him up from the inside but he was having a tough time actually getting the words out. _Let it go, let it go, let it go_.

“So…have you two—“ 

The amused expression on Mickey’s face immediately turned hard and he cut Ian off abruptly. “Nah man, we ain’t talking about this. You don’t get to fucking ask me that,” he said, shifting on his feet. A loaded silence followed, but neither man looked away. Eventually Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed, his expression softening as the two men continued to regard one other.  “Look, I gotta go get ready if we’re going to make this thing. I won’t be long. You good?”

Ian stood like a statue, gaze unwavering as he looked straight into Mickey’s eyes. _Let it go._ He relaxed his hands, not realizing they were clenched tight into fists at his sides. He slowly released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and took in another deep breath to calm himself down. His eyes never strayed from Mickey’s, searching for any sign that he was any closer to breaking down that wall. Right then Mickey’s guards were back up and Ian silently cursed all the damage he’d probably just done in the last minute. He still had more work to do if he ever wanted Mickey to let him back in, and he couldn’t let his jealous streak get in the way. He needed, for once, to keep his fucking chill.

“Yeah, Mick. I’m good,” Ian said, forcing his lips into a small, closed mouth smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Mickey didn’t say anything, but the way his pointed gaze travelled over Ian’s face suggested he knew Ian was completely full of shit. Still, he nodded once and then turned from the kitchen, entering a second room off the same hallway Trey had disappeared down, and closing the door behind him.

After a minute Ian let out another shaky breath and made his way over to the enormous ceiling to floor window overlooking the Chicago skyline. He couldn’t help but whimper out a whispered “fuck” to the empty room as he ran his hand roughly through his hair. ~~~~

As he looked out over the city he tried not to think about what Mickey’s reaction to his half-formed question had all but confirmed – that he’d let Trey fuck him, probably somewhere in the goddamn kitchen if Mickey’s awkwardness from earlier was any indication. He tried to focus instead on the fact that Mickey was even here at all, just down the hall. That fate seemed to be dealing him a second chance to make things right with Mickey if he could just keep his dick in his pants for longer than the length of a goddamn elevator ride. If he could just keep from throwing Trey through his own triple-paned living room window …

As if just to test his resolve, Ian heard the sound of a door opening down the hall, and seconds later the approach of light, padded footsteps. He saw Trey’s figure reflected in the glass, freshly showered and towel slung low around his hips as he sauntered into the living room. He made his way over to the white leather couch, plopping down with an exaggerated sigh and sitting back with arms flung up over the backrest. Ian looked heavenwards and silently begged for strength before willing his features into a passive expression and turning around. Trey was just bringing a leg up to cross his ankle over his knee, the towel he wore riding indecently high up his thighs. Ian couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling, but fuck if he was going to let this cocky asshole get to him. He placed both hands in the pockets of his pants, hooking his thumbs, and leaned back against the window, trying to match Trey’s cool confidence.

They eyed one another for several seconds, Ian trying desperately to connect some forgotten memory to his guy but coming up with nothing more than that same uneasy feeling in his gut as before. Still, he found some measure of satisfaction when it was Trey who broke the silence first.

“So Curtis, it’s been a while,” he began with a smile, letting his gaze glide over Ian’s tailored suit. “What have you been up to? Must be something good if you’re bringing in enough green for Gucci,” he said, wagging his eyebrows up and down.

Ian frowned, the crease between his eyes deepening. “It’s Ian, actually,” he replied curtly.

He hated the way Trey’s smile only grew wider at that, like he was privy to some private joke. Ian wondered idly if Trey could physically feel the heated dislike rolling off him in waves from across the room.

“Hmm, Ian is it?” Trey hummed with amusement. “So _Ian_ ,” he said with unnecessary exaggeration, “how do you know Jake?”

Ian pushed his back off from the window, feeling like he finally had an ace up his sleeve. “Oh, we used to date,” he answered with a jut of his chin, the smug half smile on his face staking a clear claim on his territory.

“Really?” Trey looked entirely unfazed. “That’s funny. Doesn’t seem like the type to date. Wouldn’t even kiss me...”

Ian’s smile faltered as his fears about something having already happened between Mickey and Trey resurfaced. That annoying logic of his pointed out that Mickey didn’t belong to him anymore – as much as Ian might’ve wanted him to – and that he had no right to be upset with either Mickey _or_ Trey for anything that might have gone down. _Logic can just go right ahead and fuck itself_ , Ian thought angrily, as his fingernails began to dig sharply into the palms of his hands still deep within his pockets.

“And I never would have taken Jake to be much of a top. I mean, seeing as he’s such a needy bottom,” Trey pressed on, delighting in Ian’s obviously failing attempts to stay calm. “But I don’t need to tell you,” he laughed, “seeing as you dated him and all. I guess when you find that special someone you’re willing to switch it up. I’m just surprised you would when I know you take it so fucking good,” Trey drawled, his lips curling into a wicked grin, “…Curtis.”

Ian’s face crumpled with confusion. His heart felt like it was beating two times as often as was normal and that uneasy feeling in his stomach was intensifying into something more closely resembling full-blown nausea.

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Ian took his hands out of his pockets and crossed them tightly across his chest. Any semblance of confidence he had was now all but gone.

Trey laughed again and sunk his ass deeper into the couch, getting more comfortable. “You seriously don’t remember me? I mean, we were both pretty fucked up but not anywhere near blacking out. You signed fucking waivers and everything. Producers wouldn’t have let you do it if you weren’t all there.”

“What—” Ian could feel the sluggish memory starting to take form in his mind. The missing puzzle pieces were slowly fitting themselves into place but he already knew he didn’t want to see the completed picture.

“This is pure fucking gold. I can’t believe we’re even running into each other again. Shit, that has to be one of the hottest pornos I’ve ever done. I mean, I know it was the first for you, but I thought for sure you’d remember– fuck, we were hot together, man! Then you went MIA from the club right after and I just assumed you struck out into the industry.” Trey paused for a second and leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closed as though trying to recreate the scene in his mind. “Didn’t you let me go bareback? Mmm, took my dick like a fucking champ too. Let me cum deep inside you.” He opened his eyes and trained them on Ian’s panicked face. “God, I’m actually getting hard just thinking about it,” he said, reaching a hand down to adjust himself through the terry cloth towel.

“I don’t…” Ian’s voice wavered as he struggled to keep the bile out of his mouth. “I don’t remember,” he finally managed. But it was a lie. The memory was dark and hazy in his mind, almost like he had watched it happening to someone else, but it was there. The cameras. All the faceless strangers standing around the brightly lit room. He didn’t remember Trey exactly, that part was true, but he remembered the unfamiliar feel of being opened up and pushed down onto a strange bed, of rough hands on his hips and the feel of being filled up by someone he didn’t belong to.

Ian had to reach out a hand to steady himself on a nearby table. There were several moments in his life he’d choose not to revisit if he could, but this was one of the worst. Once he’d gotten straightened out on his meds he used to worry a lot about what would happen if this one particular, colossal fucking mistake ever resurfaced. What a potential employer would do if they found the porno while running a background check, what his family would think – the way they would look at him – if they ever saw it. But years had passed and eventually Ian stopped worrying. Stopped fearing that the things he’d done before he got help might still rear up and bite him in the ass. He realized now how stupid that had been. Fate had just been biding its time. It brought Mickey back into Ian’s life for a second chance, but it also brought with it a shameful reminder of just how badly Ian had fucked it all up the first time. Just another wrench in Ian’s plan to try to win Mickey back.

“Hey, Curtis...” Trey’s voice broke through Ian’s thoughts. His tone had taken on a quiet, gentler quality, but mixed with something else. Something sleazy that wasn’t sitting right with Ian. He looked up and found Trey running his tongue slowly across his bottom lip in a way that immediately made Ian feel dirty. “Really, how can you not remember this…?”

Trey started to lift up the bottom edge of his towel from where it lay high on his thighs, smirking as he uncrossed his legs and pulled the towel open completely, planting both feet on the ground and letting his knees fall wide apart. Trey’s hard cock was lying up against his stomach, the vein on the underside practically pulsating, a small drop of precum already starting to form at the tip.

Ian held his breath, willing whatever it was that was happening to stop, but too paralyzed with panic to be able to move, completely unable to form the words he needed to tell Trey to fuck off. He watched, eyes wide and unblinking, as Trey took his right hand and grasped his cock by the base. He gave it a squeeze to bring himself back down, and with his left thumb swirled his tip, swiping up the precum that had leaked out. Eyes locked with Ian’s, he then slowly brought his thumb up to his mouth and licked it clean.

Distantly Ian thought he heard the slam of a door, but still his body seemed unable to carry out even the most basic functions. Breathe. Blink. Move. He simply watched as Trey let go of his cock and calmly brought the towel back around himself, sitting up straighter and readjusting himself on the couch just as Mickey appeared in the kitchen behind him. He continued to hold Ian’s panic-stricken gaze for a moment longer; his eyes seemed to blaze with the threat of fire and his smug smile all but screamed _you won’t say shit._

“Jesus Christ, don’t you own a fucking shirt?” Mickey groused, as he stepped into the living room and watched Trey stand up lazily from the couch. There was the hint of a smile on his lips and it looked like he was about to say more when his eyes swept past Trey and fell upon Ian, whatever words he was about to say dying unspoken on his lips. His dark brow immediately furrowed as he took in Ian’s face, completely drained of color, the unfocused set of his eyes, and his right hand balled into a fist and rubbing roughly against his thigh again.

Mickey moved further into the room, approaching Ian slowly, almost as if he was afraid to spook him. “Hey man, you ok? Looks like you saw a fucking ghost or something…”

He stopped just short of reaching distance, but the comforting pull of Mickey’s gruff voice was enough to break Ian from his reverie. His eyes flickered quickly to Mickey and away. He couldn’t bear the look of concern he saw there. He felt the heat of shame sweep through him. The disbelief at what he had already put this man through. It was too much. What could he possibly say? How to explain any of it? The anxiety building within him in that moment felt infinite. Like it would keep growing and growing until it had consumed him completely. He needed to get away. Away from this place, from his guilt, from Mickey’s concern, from Trey–

“Aw, he’s fine, aren’t you _Ian_?” The way Trey dragged out his name had Ian snapping to attention again. Their eyes met and Trey held his gaze as he went on. “We were just catching up, exchanging some old war stories from our stripping days.” He turned now to Mickey, laughing a little and fixing him with a big, carefree grin as he started to make his way from the room. “But I’m sure you don’t want to hear that shit Jake. All the secrets of our little boys’ club.” He paused, looking back at Ian once more. “Or maybe we’ll just save those stories for another time,” he said with a wink.

Ian’s entire body seemed to recoil at the suggestion, but finally he found his voice, weak and pathetic as it sounded. “Nah, we won’t. Those days are dead.” He turned to face Mickey, forcing himself to meet his eye. “Should we get going?”

Mickey’s forehead was creased in confusion but he seemed, if nothing else, to sense Ian’s barely contained panic, to understand his desperate need to leave. He nodded in agreement, eyes never leaving Ian’s face. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “let’s get the fuck outta here. See ya Trey.” He tilted his head in the other man’s direction before falling into step behind Ian who was making for the door as quickly as he could without running.

“Hey Curtis!” Trey yelled, just as they were stepping out into the hall, “Nice catching up!” Ian didn’t pause to respond. The last thing he heard before Mickey pulled the door closed behind them was Trey’s amused chuckle. Ian tried to ignore the bitter taste of bile in the back of his throat as he rushed towards the elevator.

***

Mickey tried to keep up, but Ian’s long strides were quickly eating up the distance to the elevator and by the time Mickey got there the doors were already starting to slide closed.

“The fuck is your malfunction Gallagher?” Mickey huffed, just managing to slip inside before the elevator began its descent.

Ian spared Mickey a quick, furtive glance before his eyes fell back down to the ground, his left leg bouncing like a jack-hammer and the fingers of his right hand clawing up and down his thigh. He made no reply and Mickey was left struggling to guess what the fuck could have gotten the redhead so rattled. All he knew for sure was that Ian’s anxiety was palpable, like a third presence in the elevator sandwiched between them, a life force of its own sucking out all the air from the small, confined space. Mickey’s need to reach out, to offer comfort, was instinctual, just as it had been in the hallway outside of Ian’s apartment, but now something was holding him back. All he could do was stare helplessly on as Ian seemed to slowly unravel right in front of him.

Unlike the ride up to Trey’s condo, which had passed in a quick, hazy, heated blur, the ride back down seemed endless, every one of Mickey’s senses heightened and on high alert. The air felt too cold, the silence too deafening, and Mickey’s own unease only grew steadily more debilitating the longer he took in Ian’s twitching body and vacant expression, but still he couldn’t move.

_Fucking elevators._

When they finally reached the ground floor the doors were barely opened before Ian was darting out into the lobby without a backwards glance. Mickey took his first breath in what felt like minutes and then quickly gave chase, again trying to keep up with the tall ass motherfucker as he made his way out the revolving door and into the city street. Mickey pursued Ian around the corner of the building where he found him slumped back against the wall, eyes squeezed closed and breathing heavy as if he’d just finished running a marathon.

“Hey…hey! The fuck man? What the hell’s wrong with you? I leave you for fifteen goddamn minutes and you’re a fucking wreck. What the fuck happened in there?” Mickey reached out and grasped Ian’s upper arm, squeezing gently to pull Ian’s attention.

Ian opened his eyes and slowly seemed to come back to the present.  His breathing was ragged and his eyes wide, but they quickly found focus on Mickey’s own. The blue eyes he grew up with, the blue eyes he loved. Would always love. Almost immediately his own eyes seemed to soften and his breath started coming a little bit easier.

“I just…I just needed to catch my breath. I get these panic attacks sometimes. Especially if something triggers it. Trey talking about shit in the past, things I just want to forget about. Christ, it makes me feel like a piece of shit. I was a piece of shit Mickey. To you.”

“Hey. Breathe man. Just breath. In through the nose. Two. Three. Four. Out through the mouth. Two. Three. Four. Again. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four.” Mickey held Ian’s gaze as he brought him through the breathing exercise, as he brought him down from the panic. Ian breathed through it, eyes brimmed with tears, throwing at Mickey any and every apology he could make through his eyes alone.

Mickey, suddenly feeling the intensity of the moment, quickly released Ian’s arm and stepped back. “Fuck Trey,” he said dismissively. He reached into his pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes and went to light up. Only then did Ian finally take in the rest of Mickey, standing before him looking like something straight out of a GQ magazine.

“Mickey...”

Mickey inhaled his hit of nicotine deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. “What?” he forced out, before blowing the smoke out and away from Ian.

“You look fucking incredible,” Ian breathed, completely in awe.

“Shut the fuck up Gallagher.” Mickey scoffed as he brought the cigarette back up to his lips, averting his gaze out towards the street, brushing off the compliment uncomfortably.

Ian continued to look at Mickey in wonder, his jaw slack and his mouth dropping open slightly. He wouldn’t be surprised if he accidently began to drool, just a little.

Mickey was standing before him in a form fitting black button-down shirt with a black skinny tie. His sleeves were casually rolled up to just below the elbow, but he was neatly put together, with the shirt tucked perfectly into tailored, dark purple pants. Mickey was wearing fucking plum and fuck if he didn’t pull it off.  The ensemble was finished off with a matching dark purple vest and a pair of highly polished, expensive-looking black leather Oxfords. Ian had never seen him look more perfect and Mickey had no idea the effect he was having on him.

“Yo, earth to Gallagher.”

Ian blinked out of his daze and straightened up off of the building. He cleared his throat and smoothed his suit down. “Sorry, I uh…”

But he was interrupted when a black town car pulled up in front of the sidewalk where they stood. The driver got out and hustled around to the passenger side, opening the rear door and waiting expectantly for who Ian didn’t know.

“You coming or what?” After a final haul off his cigarette, Mickey tossed the butt into the gutter and looked at Ian with a questioning eyebrow raised.

Again, Ian was in awe. “How…”

“Called it in when I was getting ready. Didn’t feel like driving and like fuck am I gonna sit on a pissed stained seat on the L in these pants. Come on Gallagher, we ain’t getting any younger.”

Mickey walked around the back of the car to slide in from the other side, leaving Ian to climb in through the door held open by the driver.

As Ian settled into the backseat he looked over at Mickey who was fixing him with an adorable smirk. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ‘bout ready for a fucking drink.”

Ian felt his lips twitching up into a soft smile. He regarded the other man fondly, already the nightmare of meeting Trey and the blurry memories he dredged up slipping away into the back of his mind.

“Yeah, Mick. I’m ready.”


End file.
